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JOHNA.SEAVERNS 


TALES  OF  THE  TURF 


"RANK  OUTSIDERS. 


TALES  OF  THE  TURF 


AND 


ii 


RANK  OUTSIDERS." 


By  Richard  L.  Gary,  Jr. 

("HYDER    ALI  ") 


WITH  THIRTY-ONE  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  GEAN  SMITH. 


CHICAGO: 

F.  J.  SCHULTE  &  COMPANY,  Publishers, 

29S  Dearborn  Street. 


Copyright,  1891, 
By  FRANCIS  J.  SCHULTE.. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


All  the  illustrations  in  this  volume  are  from  original 
paintings,  made  especially  for  this  work,  and  are  pro- 
tected by  the  general  copyright.  The  engraving  was 
done  by  the  Photo-Tint  Company,  Chicago. 


Press  of  Horace  O'Donoghue. 


To  the  memory  of 

AUGUST  BELMONT, 

The  typical  racing  n-jan  of  y\merica, 

tlqe  accomplished  patroq  of  the  Turf  of  the  New  World, 

to  wlqose  noble  example  and  enthusiastic  patronage 

its  present  status  and  prosperi'ry 

are  rr^ainly  due, 

th|is  volume  is  appreciatively  dedicated  by 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


TALES  OF  THE  TURF. 

Page. 

Why  Rain-in-tJic-Facc  ivas  Scratched 17 

How  Smuggler  beat  the  Maid 28 

Ike  Mjirphys  Ride 3/ 

Wlien  Huntress  won  the  Stake 40 

Dandy  Jivis  Dream;  or,  Hozu  the  Brown  Colt  zvon  the  Derby           .  43 

An  Oivners  Opinion 50 

Bettie  Simpkins  Marc 52 

Shozving  the  Thoroughbreds 56 

The  Paddock  Gate,  and  hoiv  it  zvas  Opened .60 

"  Scotty'' 64 

In  Luck  Both   Ways ^7 

Old  Freeland 70 

That  Thoroughbred  Nell:  A   Tale  of  Kentucky  in  186 j      ....  72 

The  Hero  of  the  Stable 78 

Hozu  Roy   Wilkes  Downed  the  Gang 80 

Miss   Woodford 84 

A  Colored  Tip 87 

Forbidden  Fruit;  or,  Hozv  Flying  Cloud  zvas  Saved 89 

Why  the  Captain  Quit  Racing 95 

Burton's  Prairie  Belle;  or,  Hozv  the  Cup  zvas  Run  and  Won  ...  97 

The  Driver  s  Story 99 

Bob  Aiken's  Ride  to  Death 100 

The  Deacon's  Purchase 105 

Hozv  Wild  Rose  zvon  the  Cup 1 07 

The  Biters  Bit in 

/;/  Memoriam 114 

Bride  of  Montgomery 115 

Little  Sunshine  and  Bonnie  Grace 118 

Lexington:  A  Fragment ....I2i 

McCarthy  s  Plug  Hat 123 

The  Tout's  Story 124 

Buds  of  Spring 129 

9 


lo  Contents. —  Concluded. 

"  RANK  OUTSIDERS." 

Page. 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Fast  Mail I33 

A71  Outcast's  Story .138 

Billy  Brozvn  of  Kokomo 14^ 

The  New  Magdalen i47 

The  Modern  Style I49 

Sandy  s  Nugget 151 

Me  and  Jim i53 

Her  Evening  Prayer 158 

My  Father  s  Mill       .     ' I59 

The  Old-Fashioned  Way 161 

The  Senti/ieTs  Story 162 

Mercy  May 164 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  So  swept  Roy  Wilkes  along  the  track  and  finished  all  alone. "  FEO^^TIsPIECE 

"  The  Colored  Archer.'' 20' 

'' I  tlionght  you  knew  Bob  loved  VIC.''      .           ,     .     .  2S 

"  She  beats  him  home  by  half  a  length!  The  courtiers  smile  again. "  .  31 

"  You've  got  him,  Jim!      The  mare  zvill  ivin!  " 41 

"  At  tlie  end  of  a  mile  a  gray  colt  led;  the  black  at  his  withers  lay."  4S 

"  And  s/ic  said:  'I'm  Bettie  Simpkins.'" 54 

"  Dis yar  hoss,  Mistah  Presidcn',  am  Bonnie  Scotlan's  son."    ...  57" 

"  There 's  Saunderson!  I  thought  him  dead:  by  Jove,  he 's  on  tJie  Lark!  "  61 
''/saddled  Scotty,  an'  just  as  day  broke  over  the  mountains,  I  rode 

azvay." ^^ 

"  The  grandest  race-horse  in  all  the  land." 7^ 

"  Dozun  the  old  turnpike  road,  zvith  her  crippled  blue  load."    ...  75 

"  In  the  dark  0'  Satan's  stall." ■      •      •  79 

"  The  daughter  of  old  Fancy  Jane."      .           „  '  ^^ 

"  Flying  Cloud  don't  get  no  apple  'fore  this  race,  you  understand!  "  .  91 

"  Dead  under  the  zvire,  and  a  winner  too,  lay  Burton's  Prairie  Belle. "  97 
"  Must  I  zveigh  in  the  corpse  ?  For  the  jockey  that  rode  Saul,  the  ivin- 

ner,  is  dead !"      ....           •      •  ^*-*3 

"  While  that  gray  horse,   TJie  Dart,  shoived  a  touch  of  faint  heart, 

And  old  Wild  Rose  ivas  gaining  as  steady  as  fate."            .     .      .  I09' 

"  Tzvo  trainers  close  together  lay." 112 

"  Bride  of  Montgomery." ^^^ 

"  On po'  little  Sunshine's grabe."  .      . 120 

"  //  loojns  up  like  a  ligJit-house  seen  through  a  fog." 123 

''  Her  coming  flyers  —  Buds  of  Spring." ,',  ^^^ 

"  Tliey  didn't  tJiink  that  the  stage-coach  was  lumbcrin' ,  old  and  slozv."  134- 

"  And  then  as  azvay  it  vanished,  with  a  flash  like  a  comet's  tail."     .  I35 

"  Still  from  Schacfer's  magic  cue." .143 

"  The  old  cJiurchfell  to  ruins,  Tom,  beneath  tJie  touch  of  time."  .      .  I49 
'•  An'  zve  knowed  whar  the  bluebirds  built  their  nests."   ...           .155' 

"  The  girls  snuggled  in,  zvith  the  boys  at  tJicir  side." 161 

''  We'd  stopped  for  a  chat  at  tJie  end  of  oiLr  beat." 163 

Turned  Out ' 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  writer  deeply  appreciates  tlie  privilege  of  writing  the 
introduction  to  this  charming  collection  of  tributes  to  the  glory 

of  the  turf. 

To  a  man  whose  morning  and  noon-day  of  life  have  been 
spent  in  the  love  and  labor  of  the  turf  these  gems  are  indeed 
pleasant  to  hold  and  dwell  upon.  I  have  read  but  two. 
turf  poets  — Adam  Lindsey  Gordon  (the  brilliant  but  ill- 
starred  Australian)  and  Richard  L.  Gary,  Jr.,  the  author  of  this 
book.  Here  you  may  not  find  the  tumultuous  passages  of 
Gordon,  but  you  find  a  smooth  and  wholly  enticing  reiteration 
of  the  spirit  of  man's  noblest  sport.  In  these  pages  I  have 
found  the  tender  blended  with  the  stern,  the  calm  and  beauti- 
ful tempering  the  rollicking  and  gay.  the  pathetic  coloring 
the  abandon,  and  the  kind  and  the  austere  mingled  in  the 
seductive  voice  of  song. 

The  glories  of  the  .turf;  the  almost  divine  enthusiasm  that 
thrills  all  our  veins  in  the  sublime  interest  of  contest;  the  wild 
excitement  of  the  finish  — all  these  are  reechoed  in  the  flow- 
ing tones  of  a    poet  whose  style  is  never  labored  and    never 

stilted. 

In  the  pages  that  follow  many  of  my  hours  have  been 
made  pleasanter  and  better  — they  have  given  rise  to  a  higher 
devotion  to  the  superb  animal  whose  admiration  is  with  me, 
and  with  most  of  those  who  read  these  poems,  a  passion; 
and  I  commend  them  to  all  horsemen  whose  better  moments, 
are  o-iven  to  "the  sweetness  and    the   light"  of  this  work-da^ 

world. 

Leslie  E.   Macleod, 

Edit07'  of  The  Horseman. 


I. 

TALES  OF  THE  TURF. 


TALES  OF  THE  TURF. 

WHY  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE  WAS  SCRATCHED. 

A  Romance  of  Washington  Park. 

Bob  Jackson  sat  one  night  in  June 

And  watched  the  roses  red  in  bloom. 

Beneath  his  straw  hat,  latest  style, 

Of  Dunlap's  make,  there  lurked  a  smile. 

Dreaming  he  sat,  and,  where  he  dreamed, 

The  moonbeams  through  the  casement  streamed 

Like  a  silver  brook  that  had  turned  aside 

In  the  dark,  and  sought  a  place  to  hide. 

He  dreamed  of  a  rose-embowered  cot, 

By  the  trees  half  hid,  on  a  corner  lot. 

By  a  turnpike  road  that  stretched  away 

Among  the  blue-grass  fields  that  lay 

And  smiled  in  the  face  of  the  summer  sun. 

Where  the  streamlets  laugh  as  they  onward  run; 

Of  a  slender  form  and  a  winsome  face 

That  smiled  in  his  with  a  fairy  grace; 

Of  the  home  that  he  meant  to  have  some  day 

When  the  wheel  of  fortune  turned  his  way. 

But  when  he  glanced  toward  the  far-off  track, 
Dark,  with  its  stables  over  back, 
His  dreaming  ceased,  and  he  somehow  thought 
Of  the  three-year-old  that  day  he'd  bought, — 


Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

A  likely  colt,  with  a  pedigree 
That  would  almost  reach  from  sea  to  sea, — 
And  he  wondered  how  on  earth  he'd  pay 
The  books  all  off  if  he  lost  next  day; 
For  Bob  had  plunged  in  a  plunger's  way. 

Bess  Burroughs  slowly  climbed  the  stair, 
Humming  over  an  old-time  air, 
Such  as  mothers  used  to  croon 
In  the  old  slave  days  by  the  dark  lagoon. 
To  their  pickaninnies,  when  the  dark 
Was  only  lit  by  the  glow-worm's  spark, 
And  the  cotton-fields  in  their  robes  of  white 
Were  tucked  away  by  the  goddess  Night. 

Over  her  shoulders,  white  and  fair^ 

There  streamed  the  wealth  of  her  gold-brown  hair, 

While  the  dusky  splendor  of  her  eyes 

Burned  like  twin  stars  in  midnieht  skies, 

And  her  dainty  footsteps  fell  as  light 

On  the  marble  stair  as  the  feet  of  Night. 

Blushing,  she  paused  at  the  open  door 

Of  the  moonlit  room,  on  the  parlor  floor. 

To  ask — you  know  'tis  a  woman's  way  — 

What  horse  he  thought  it  were  best  to  play 

In  the  Drexel  Stakes  to  be  run  next  day. 

Bob,  smiling,  rose,  and  with  courtly  grace 
Escorted  Bess  to  the  vacant  place 
By  the  window  seat,  while  the  roses  red 
Bent  low  at  the  sight  of  her  sunny  head. 
"Ah,  Bess,"  he  said,  "in  a  racing  way 
I've  not  been  right  for  many  a  day; 
But  this  afternoon,  when  at  the  track, 
I  bought  of  Harper  a  handsome  black. 
By  Ten  Broeck,  out  of  a  War  Dance  mare, 
The  boys  had  christened  Lord  o'  Clare. 


IV/iy  Rain-in-the- Face  was  Scratched.  19 

"I  like  the  way  he  moves;  and,  Bess, 
I've  backed  him  for  a  fortune  !      Yes, 
Unless  he  wins,  my  racing's  o'er; 
My  colors  will  be  seen  no  more. 
But  should  he  win.  Oh,  Bess  !  my  dear, 
Will  you  be  mine  this  very  year. 
Before  the  roses  fade  and  die 
And  flakes  of  snow  across  the  sky 
Are  blown  and  fall  to  earth  below  ? 
Pray  tell  me,  Bess, — I  love  you  so  ! 
For  God's  sake  answer  Yes  or  No  !" 

Bess  BurrouQfhs  bent  her  o-old-brown  head; 
Her  cheeks  were  like  the  roses  red; 
Her  dainty  hand,  a  snowflake  white, 
Sought  his,  and,  while  a  sudden  light 
Crept  to  her  eyes,  she  whispered  low: 
"'Bob,  why  will  you  keep  plunging  so? 
Your  Lord  o'  Clare  can  never  win  ! 
Papa's  brown  colt  will  beat  him  in. 
If  yours  is  first" —  a  look  of  pride 
Shone  in  her  eyes  ^ —  "  I'll  be  your  bride 
Before  the  roses  fade  and  die, 
Ere  snowflakes  drift  across  the  sky. 
To  win,  your  Lord  o'  Clare  must  fly  !" 

And  then  she  whispered  low:   "Good-night," 

And  left  him  standing  in  the  light 

That  through  the  open  casement  streamed. 

And  like  a  flood  of  silver  gleamed 

Upon  the  carpet,  while  she  sought 

Her  dainty  room  and  sat  and  thought, 

All  heedless  of  the  flight  of  time, 

Until  the  cuckoo  clock  chimed  nine 

Upon  her  mantel.     "Lord  o'  Clare 


20 


Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

Must  win!  "  she  whispered.      Like  a  prayer 
That  sentence  fell  upon  the  air. 

Jack  Burroughs,  withered,  gray  and  bent. 
Sat  figuring,  in  calm  content, 
How  much  the  Drexel,  figured  net, 
Would  yield  the  winner, — for  he'd  set 


The  Colored  Arclur. 

His  heart  on  winning  that  same  race 
With  his  brown  colt,  Rain -in-the- Face, 
By  Billet,  out  of  Prairie  Belle, 
By  Rebel,  second  dam  Can't  Tell, — 
When  Bess  crept  in  with  blushing  face 
For  his  opinion  of  the  race. 

"Why,  Bess,"  the  old  man  chuckling  said, 
"  Rain-in-the-Face  has  got  it  dead  ! 
There's  not  a  horse  that's  entered  there 
Can  make  him  run,  save  Lord  o'  Clare. 


Why  Rain-iii-thc-Face  zoas  Scratched. 

But  even  he  can  never  beat 

My  gallant  brown,  who's  strong  and  fleet 

As  any  horse  I've  ever  seen; 

Yes,  better,  Bess,  than  Sweet  Sixteen 

Was  at  his  age,  and  —  well,  you  know 

How  fast  that  flying  mare  could  go  — 

Aye  !   faster  than  the  winds  that  blow  !  " 

Bess  bent  and  kissed  the  old  gray  head; 
Then,  blushing  scarlet,  softly  said: 
*'  Papa,  I  know  Rain-in-the-Face 
Can  win,  but  in  to-morrow's  race 
He  must  not  start.      Please,  for  my  sake, 
Scratch  the  brown  colt  if  you  would  make 
Me  very  happy,  and  I'll  bless 
You  all  my  life  !  " 

"Why,  see  here,  Bess!" 
The  old  man  answered,  while  his  eyes 
Sought  hers  as  if  he  would  surprise 
Her  secret;  "  I  have  backed  my  colt, 
And  now  you're  asking  me  to  bolt 
The  course,  and  all  for  Lord  o'  Clare. 
It's  both  suspicious  and  unfair. 
Old  Harper  can  afl"ord  to  lose 
The  stake.     No !   Bess,  I  must  refuse 
To  humor  you.     '  Twould  be  a  sin  ! 
Rain-in-the-Face  must  start  and  win  !  " 

"No,  papa,  no!"      Bess  softly  cried; 
"'  I  know  the  colt's  your  pet  and  pride, 

But  I  want  Lord  o'  Clare  to  win. 

Oh,  papa,  dear,   I  can't  begin 

To  tell  my  reasons,  but  some  day 

You'll  know  them  !      Let  me  have  my  way  — 

Please,  just  this  once  !"  And  eyelids  wet 

With  tears  were  raised  to  his. 


21 


2  2  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

"My  pet," 
The  old  man  answered,   "have  your  way; 
The  colt  shall  start  some  other  day. 
And  Lord  o'  Clare  shall  win  the  race, 
For  I'll  not  start  Rain-in-the-Face  1 " 

Bess  Burroughs,  in  a  woman's  way. 

Thanked  the  old  man  and  fled  away 

To  her  own  room,  and  there,  beside 

Her  snowy  couch,  she  knelt  and  cried 

For  very  joy,  while  down  below 

Bob  Jackson,  pacing  to  and  fro. 

Dreamed  of  a  laughing,  winsome  face, 

That,  somehow,  seemed  to  haunt  the  place; 

Of  dusky  eyes,  of  hair  gold-brown, 

Until  the  lights  were  out  in  town; 

Then  sought  his  couch  with  whispered  prayer 

That  He  who  ruled  o'er  earth  and  air 

Would  victory  give  to  Lord  o'  Clare. 

Next  morn  the  hotel  blackboard  bore 
Two  lines  not  seen  the  night  before: 
*'  Rain-in-the-Face  won't  start  to-day, 
For  women  e'en  must  have  their  way  !" 
And  much  the  turfmen  marveled  when 
They  read  the  words,  for  racing  men 
Knew  old  Jack  Burroughs  through  and  through, 
And  knew  his  winsome  daughter,  too; 
But  why  he  should  not  start  the  brown 
Unless  the  colt  had  broken  down 
They  could  not  yet  quite  understand. 
How  true  it  is  that  all  the  land 
Is  ruled  and  by  a  woman's  hand  ! 

Bob  Jackson,  rising  ere  the  lark, 
Between  the  daylight  and  the  dark, 


Why  Rain-hi-the-Face  was  Scratched.  ^3 

Had  sought  the  track  that  lay  asleep 
Beneath  the  clouds,  God's  fleecy  sheep, 
To  see  himself  that  Lord  o'  Clare 
Was  given  just  the  best  of  care; 
Nor  had  he  heard  Rain-in-the-Face 
Was  not  to  start  in  that  day's  race 
Until  his  trainer,  chuckling  low, 
Said:   "Burroughs'  colt  is  not  to  go, 
And,  barring  accidents,  we'll  win 
The  Drexel  Stakes  as  sure  as  sin. 
This  time  I'll  lead  the  winner  in." 

Night  slowly  fled  before  the  dawn; 

Tlie  stars  waxed  dim  and  then  were  gone. 

Across  the  fields  a  veil  of  gray 

Came  drifting  where  the  moonbeams  play; 

Then  Morning,  rising  from  her  bed, 

Hurled  at  the  Night  her  lance  of  red, 

That,  striking  on  the  shield  of  Night, 

Fell,  broken,  back  in  beams  of  light. 

The  rose-leaves  quivered  in  the  air, 

The  lark  sent  up  its  morning  prayer, 

And  robins  whistled  everywhere; 

The  south  wind  whispered  in  the  corn 

That  raised  its  spears  to  greet  the  morn; 

And  so  a  rare  June  day  was  born. 

The  day  waned  into  afternoon; 

The  air  was  heavy  with  perfume; 

A  great  crowd  gathered  at  the  course; 

The  gentler  sex  turned  out  in  force. 

The  first  two  races  had  been  run, 

A  rank  outsider  winning  one, 

The  favorite  in  that  same  race 
Not  even  running  to  a  place; 
And  now  the  eager  watchers  wait 
The  Drexel  Stakes  ! 


24  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

Beside  the  gate 
That  led  out  on  the  level  track, 
There  stood,  a  great  crowd  at  his  back, 
The  Californians'  pride,  Ben  Bolt, 
A  slashing,  handsome,  big  bay  colt, 
By  Grinstead,  out  of  Clara  D.; 
Full  five  years  old  he  looked  to  be. 
Beyond  him,  with  a  kingly  air 
And  coat  of  jet,  stood  Lord  o'  Clare. 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Heart  of  Oak, 
Romain,  Falstaff  and  Artichoke 
Made  up  the  field,  and  in  the  sun 
They  looked  like  racers  every  one. 

Beneath  the  club-house  on  the  lawn, 
Fair  as  a  goddess  of  the  dawn, 
Bess  Burroughs  stood,  her  dusky  eyes 
Reflecting  back  the  light  that  lies 
Along  the  lovelit  ways  of  June, 
When  earth  and  sky  are  both  atune. 
Beside  her,  leaning  on  his  cane. 
Jack  Burroughs  stood,  and  o'er  again 
Repeated:    "  Lord  o'  Clare  will  win  ! 
Ben  Bolt,  I  think,  will  chase  him  in. 
Those  Californy  chaps  don't  know 
That  colt  of  Harper's.     Down  below, 
At  Louisville,  I  saw  him  run 
A  trial  that  humped  the  watches  some  — 
He's  fast  as  bullet  from  a  gun." 

A  bugle  blown  upon  the  stand 

Sent  its  wild  notes  across  the  land 

To  call  the  rival  racers  out, 

And  kerchiefs  white  were  tossed  about 

When  Ben  Bolt  slowly  galloped  by, 

A  silhouette  against  the  sky. 


Why  Raln-in-tke-Facc  was  Scratched. 


25 


Sir  Launcelot  and  Heart  of  Oak, 
Romain,  Falstaff  and  Artichoke 
Were  greeted  well.     A  mig-hty  shout 
Caught  Lord  o'  Clare  when  ridden  out. 

The  colored  Archer  turned  his  head 
And  raised  his  cap  of  white  and  red; 
While  into  old  Jack  Burroughs'  eyes 

There  crept  a  look  of  great  surprise. 
He  glanced  at  Bess  and  muttered  low: 
"  Young  folks  must  wed  and  old  must  o-o  !  " 
Then  said  aloud:   "Well,  I  declare, 
If  Harper  ain't  sold  Lord  o'  Clare, 
And  to  Bob  Jackson  !     I  can  guess 
Those  reasons  that  you  can't  express. 
I  say,  though,  you're  a  sly  one,  Bess!" 

Bess  Burroughs'  cheeks  were  all  aflame 
A  moment,  then  grew  white  again. 
"Papa,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you  knew 
Bob  loved  me,  and — I  love  him  too! 
If  Lord  o'  Clare  should  win  to-day, 
He  means  to  take  your  lass  away. 
If  you  will  let  him,  ere  the  leaves 
Turn  red  and  gold,  and  while  the  sheaves 
Still  ripen  in  the  autumn  sun  —  " 
*'  Well,  Bess,  though  you're  the  only  one 

That's  left,"  the  old  man  answered  back, 
"  If  you're  disposed  to  bolt  the  track 

With  Bob,  I  will  not  say  you  nay, 

For  young  blood  must  be  served,  they  say; 

It's  been  so  since  Creation's  day." 

Just  at  that  moment,  loud  and  clear, 

A  Californian  standing  near 

Yelled  :      "Who  will  bet  against  Ben  Bolt  ? 

Five  thousand  that  he  beats  that  colt 


^  I  thought  you  knew  Bob  loved  me.'' 


26  Talcs  of  the  Tiirf. 

Called  Lord  o"  Clare  !  "     ''  I'll  take  you,"  cried 
Old  Jack,  with  true  Kentucky  pride, 
And,  putting  up  the  cash,  he  turned 
To  Bess,  with  manner  unconcerned, 
And  whispered  in  her  blushins^  ear: 
"  They'll  never  beat  him  !      Don't  you  fear  ! 
Kentucky  still  can  show  the  way 
To  Californy  any  day  ! 
That  cash  will  come  in  by  and  by 
Most  mighty  handy.      Birds  that  fly 
From  old  Jack's  nest  must  needs  fly  high." 

"They're  off!"     The  shout  went  up  at  last. 
The  pace,  right  from  the  start,  was  fast; 
Ben  Bolt  and  Lord  o'  Clare,  abreast, 
Were  first  away  and  led  the  rest; 
Right  at  their  withers,  Heart  of  Oak 
A  head  in  front  of  Artichoke; 
Romain  and  Falstaff,  side  by  side,. 
Each  swiftly  measured  stride  for  stride; 
While,  galloping  behind  the  lot. 
Came  the  iron  gray.  Sir  Launcelot. 

Around  the  lower  turn  they  flew, 
And  then  Romain's  red,  white  and  blue 
Was  first  to  show,  with  Artichoke 
In  second  place;  next  Heart  of  Oak, 
While  Californy  and  Kaintuck 
Ran  head  and  head  back  in  the  ruck; 
Right  next  to  them.  Sir  Launcelot. 
With  Falstaff  "tailing"  oft'  the  lot. 
The  dust  that  rose,  a  golden  cloud. 
Half  hid  them  from  the  eager  crowd. 
The  silks  and  satins,  gleaming  bright. 
Were  ever  shifting  in  the  light  — 
A  flock  of  hummino^-birds  in  fliorht. 


Why  Rain-in-the-Face  was  Scratched.  27 

Into  the  stable-turn  Remain 
Still  showed  the  way,  and  then  again 
Another  change,  and  Heart  of  Oak 
Sailed  to  the  front  with  Artichoke. 
Sir  Launcelot  flew  like  a  bird 
Around  the  bend,  and  soon  was  third. 
A  shout  went  up  :    "  Just  see  Ben  Bolt ! 
And  like  a  flash  the  Grinstead  colt 
Shot  out  in  front  !    Cheers  rent  the  air. 
Rio-ht  on  his  flanks  hung  Lord  o'  Clare, 
While,  only  half  a  length  away, 
With  steady  strides  there  came  the  gray. 
A  furlong  out  whips  flashed  in  air. 
"  Ben  Bolt  is  beaten  !  "   "  Lord  o'  Clare 
Will  win  !  "     Bess  Burroughs  breathed  a  prayer. 

On  toward  the  goal  the  racers  swept, 

And,  inch  by  inch,  the  black  colt  crept 

Up  on  the  leader,  while  the  gray 

W^as  still  but  half  a  length  away. 

A  distance  out  Sir  Launcelot 

Came  on  the  outside,  like  a  shot, 

And  then  joined  issue  with  the  pair. 

Here  Murphy  called  on  Lord  o'  Clare, 

And,  putting  forth  his  giant  strength, 

The  black  colt  won  by  half  a  length. 

Sir  Launcelot,  fleet  as  the  wind, 

Left  Ben  Bolt  half  a  head  behind. 

Bess  Burroughs  waved  her  'kerchief  white. 

Her  dusky  eyes  with  love  alight  — 

And  w^ore  a  diamond  ring  that  night. 


Within  a  rose-embowered  cot. 
Half  hid  by  trees,  on  a  corner  lot, 


28  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

A  level  turnpike  road  beside, 

Bob  Jackson  and  his  bonny  bride 

Are  living-  now;  while  on  the  gate, 

In  summer,  when  the  day  grows  late, 

A  lauofhinor   briorht-eyed  urchin  swino-s 

And  prattles  of  the  sport  of  kings 

To  old  Jack  Burroughs,  standing-  near; 

And  from  the  cottage,  low  but  clear, 

Comes  floating  on  the  summer  air 

The  song  that  once  upon  the  stair 

Bess  Burroughs  hummed  in  days  gone  by 

"Ah  me,  how  quick  the  summers  fl}-  !  " 
The  old  man,  glancing  o'er  the  place, 
Says,  thinking  of  Bess'  happy  face; 

"  I'm  orlad  I  scratched  Rain-in-the-Face  !  " 


HOW  SMUGGLER  BEAT  THE  MAID. 


A  Tale  of  the  Centennial  Year. 


Draw  back  the  curtains,   Father  Time,  and  pin  them  fast  with 
spears; 

Call  out  the  flyers,  dead  and  gone,  of  fifteen  years  ago  — 
The  heralds  of  a  flying  age,  that  even  nov/  appears, 

Swift  climbing  o'er  the  mountain  peaks,  white  with  their  caps 
of  snow. 
What  though  the  sulky-wheels  be  stilled,  a  driver  gone  to  sleep 
Beneath  a  little  mound  of  sod,  where  tangled  grasses  creep  } 
So  long  as  in  the  breast  of  man  an  honest  heart  shall  beat, 
And  kings  and  queens  of  equine  birth  in  battle  royal  meet. 
Will  Mem' ry  journey  backward  to  that  golden  summer's  day 
That  gave  to  one  a  kingly  crown  and  took  a  crown  away. 


How  Smuggler  Beat  the  Maid.  29 

Let's  trot  it  o'er, —  that  greatest  race  the  century  has  seen, — 
For  never  grander  field  has  trod  a  trotting-track,  I  ween, 
Than  took  the  track  at  Cleveland,   where  a  king  dethroned  a 
queen. 

II. 

The  sun  that  ushered  in  the  day  looked  down  upon  the  corn. 
That  raised    a  hundred  thousand    spears  all   flashing  in   the 
light, 
To  greet  a  queen  that  jogged  the  track  in  pride  at  early  morn. 
Then    faced  about  to  greet  a    king  that  strode  the  track  at 
night; 
For  from  the  far-off  Kansas  plains,  where  rippling  grasses  grow, 
And  ox-eyed  daisies  star  the  sod  like  flakes  of  living  snow, 
Had  come  a  slashing  big  bay  horse,  with  flashing  hazel  eyes 
That  held  imprisoned  'neath  their  lids  the  light  of  sunset   skies; 
And  boldly  thrown  a  gauntlet  down  and  dared  a  queen  to  meet, 
While  fawning  courtiers  knelt  around,  astonished,  at  her  feet. 
But  Doble  picked  the  gauntlet  up  and  swore  a  lance  he'd  break 
With  Charley  Marvin  then  and  there,  just  for  his  lady's  sake. 
Then    Dan  Mace  said  he'd    take  a    hand,  and    so  did  Charley 

Green, 
While  Johnston,  armed  all  cap-a-pie,  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
Ah!  one  there  is,  gone  fast  asleep  — God  keep  his  mem'ry  green. 


III. 

Beneath  the  grand  stand  met  that  day  the  men  from  ev'ry  State; 
From  North  and  South,  from  East  and  West  the  trottinof  cohorts 

o 

came. 
They  argued  things  from  every  point  and  figured  out  the  slate; 
Then,  looking  o'er  the  records,  said,  "  She'll  get  there  just  the 

same ! 
For  Goldsmith   Maid,  the  trotting  queen,  was  then  just  in  her 

prime; 
Herrecord,  "  Two-fourteen,"  still  stood  unchallenged  by  old  Time. 


30  Talcs  of  the   Titrf. 

She  skipped  along  with  airy  orace  and  ruled  a  queen  by  rights 
Of  conquests  made  on  many  tracks  o'er  ladies  fair  and  knights. 
"And  who,"  they  asked,  "is  this  who  comes  from  out  '  the  wooly 

West,' 
To  beard  the  tigress  in  her  den,  the  eagle  in  her  nest  ?  " 
" 'Tis  Smuggler,"  Marvin   answered  back,  "and  we  shall  wrest 

the  crown 
From  Doble's  little  trotting  queen  before  the  sun  goes  down." 
Then  Mace  he  swore  a  mighty  oath  that  Goldsmith  Maid  should 

win, 
And  Green  with  Lucille  Golddust  vowed  he'd  help  Budd  Doble  in. 
While  Peter  Johnston  winked  his  eye  and  wicked  looked  as  sin. 

IV. 

The  ladies  in  their  fleecy  robes  gave  back  Dame  Nature's  smiles. 

Their  bright  eyes  gleamed  more  brightly  than  the  jewels  that 
they  wore. 
Fond  cavaliers  above  them  bent,  lured  by  their  graceful  wiles; 

While  music  of  the  laughing  waves  came  faint  from  Erie's  shore. 
A  thousand  dainty  fans  of  lace  were  flutt'ring  in  the  air, 
As  though  a  swarm  of  butterflies  had  come  to  hover  there; 
A   thousand  dainty  handkerchiefs   tossed   on   the  south  wind's 

breast  — 
'Twas  like  a  cloud  of  snowflakes  blown  across  a  flowery  heath. 
Eyes  spoke  to  eyes  that  spoke  again,  and  laughter  low  and  sweet 
Went  rippling  o'er  the  crowded  stand  —  a  zephyr  in  the  wheat. 
Bon-bons  were  wagered  everywhere,  and  gloves  a  thousand  score 
Would  find  new  owners  ere  the  night  came  down  upon  the  shore. 
A  statue  grand  upon  the  stand  stood  Smuggler's  owner  there; 
A  statuette  was  Doble's  wife,  upon  her  lips  a  prayer. 
Around  the  pool-stands  surged  the  crowd  in  rough  but  noisy  glee. 
While  wagers  flew  about  like  hail  and  words  were  bandied  free. 
'Twas  Goldsmith  Maid  against  the  field,  at  any  odds,  you  see. 


How  Smuggler  Beat  the  Maid. 


Loud  clangs  the  bell  that  calls  them  out,  and,  'midst  a  storm  of 

cheers, 
Budd  Doble  jogs  the  trotting  queen  up   slowly  by  the  stand; 
Judge   Fullerton,    prince    of    the  realm,   with    Dan   Mace    next 

appears  — 
The  Wizard  of  the  Sulky  bowing  low  on  every  hand; 
Now  Lucille  Golddust  comes  along,  her  driver  Charley  Green, 
And  P.  V.  Johnston  follows  fast,  he  piloting  Bodine. 
The  storm  of  cheers,  that  died  away  like  thunder  in  the  sky, 
Bursts  out  again  as  Marvin  jogs  the  mighty  Smuggler  by. 
Pretender  though  the  horse  may  be,  pretender  to  a  throne, 
Where  Goldsmith  Maid  has  reigned  a  queen  for   many   years 

alone. 
He  hath  a  royal  bearing,  and  his  flashing  hazel  eyes 
Reflect  the  lightning's  glint  that  plays  along  the  western  skies. 
They  wheel  beyond  the  judges'  stand;  they're  marshaled  for  the 

fray. 
Each  man's  a  master  of  the  craft  that  holds  the  reins  to-day. 
Let  drums  be  stilled  and  bugles  mute,  while  heralds  clear  the 

way  ! 

VI. 

Two  false  attempts,  then  down  they  come,  but  Smuggler  lurks 
behind; 

The  others  level  reach  the  wire,  and  "  Go,"  the  starter  cries; 
They  sweep  around  the  lower  turn  as  swiftly  as  the  wind; 

Each  stride  they  take  is  measured  by  ten   thousand   pairs  of 
eyes. 
Judge  Fullerton  has  left  his  feet  !      The  Maid  is  out  in  front; 
Determined  as  was  Joan  of  Arc,  she  bears  the  battle's  brunt ! 
Bodine  is  in  the  second  place  !     With  muscles  made  of  steel, 
The  mighty  Smuggler  strides  along  —  he's  at  the  gelding's  wheel. 
Resistless  as  the  torrent's  rush  in  mountainous  ravine, 
He  sweeps  into  the  second  place,  a  heaven-made  machine. 


34  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

The  noisy  crowd  is  hushed  and  still.      He's  gaining  on  the  Maid, 
And  now  they  swing  into  the  stretch.   "  Come  on  !   Come  on,  you 

jade  !  " 
The  stallion  falters.     What  was  that?     A  shoe  that's  cast  in  air; 
The  answer  to  a  muttered  wish,  a  woman's  whispered  prayer. 
He  comes  a  cyclone  through  the  stretch,  born  on  a  Kansas  plain. 
She  beats  him  home  by  half  a  length.      The  courtiers  smile  again. 
That  rush  electric  fired  the  blood  like  lightning's  tongues  of  flame. 

VII. 

With  one  false  start,  they're  off  again.      Like  arrow  from  a  bow 
The  trotting  queen  shoots  to  the  front,  and  Smuggler  leaves 
his  feet. 

Her  sulky  like  a  storm-tossed  bark  is  rocking  to  and  fro; 

She's  shod  like  Mercury  of  old — 'twas  wings  that  made  him  fleet. 

The  stallion's  settled  down  at  last  —  great  Scott  !  a  distance  out, 

With  only  dust  that's  backward  blown  to  show  to  him  the  route. 

He  hears  the  noise  of  iron-shod  hoofs  that  echo  from  the  track, 

The  humming  of  the  flying  wheels,  the  noisy  whips  that  crack. 

He  borrows  swift  Pegasus'  wings, —  they're   lent  him  from  the 
skies, — 

And,  like  a  blood-hound  on  the  trail,  around  the  circle  flies. 

The   Maid,  a  victor,  reached  the  wire.      Down  drops  a    blood- 
red  rag. 

Thank  God  for  that  wild  burst  of  speed  that  beat  the  distance  flag. 

For  Smuggler's    just  ten  lengths    away,   his     breast    bedecked 
with  foam; 

He  looks  a  giant  cast  in  bronze,  and  left  to  trot  alone. 

For  Lucille  Golddust  and  the  rest,  all,  all  have  beat  him  home. 

VIII. 

With  two  heats  to  her  credit  now,  the  Maid  is  sure  to  win; 

Yo.u'd  bet  a  brownstone  front  she  would  against  a  peanut-stand. 
Through  overconfidence  in  Eve  was  Adam  made  to  sin. 

And  Providence  has  oft  o'erturned  the  best  schemes  ever 
planned. 


How  Smuggle?'  Beat  the  Maid.  35 

Again  the  Maid  shoots  to  the  front  and  speeds  around  the  turn. 
Her  hoofs,  that  twinkle  through  the  dust,  you  scarcely  can  discern. 
Judge  FuUerton  is  two  lengths  back,  with  Lucille  at  his  wheel; 
The  Kansas  stallion  coming  next,  while  Bodine  foots  the  reel. 
Lucille  has  taken  second  place  before  the  half  is  passed. 
While  'way  on  the  extreme  outside  comes  Smuggler,  trotting  fast. 
He  leaves  Judge  Fullerton  behind  !  he  bids  Lucille  good-by  ! 
He  scarcely  seems  to  touch  the  earth,  but  rather  seems  to  fly. 
He  comes  a  demon  in  the  stretch;  he's  at  the  leader's  girth. 
The  queen's  attendants  silent  are.      They've  lost  their  looks  of 

mirth. 
Tis  vain  that  Doble  plies  the  whip  and  lifts  the  mare  along; 
That  cyclone  from  the   Kansas  plains  is  coming  mighty  strong. 
"God   save    the  queen,"  the  courtiers  cry,  but   all  in   vain   the 

prayer  — 
He  beats  her  by  a  head  and  neck,  while  hats  are  tossed  in  air. 
Pretender,  eh  ?  and  to  a  throne  ?    Ah,  Doble,  have  a  care  ! 

IX. 

They're  off  again  at  second  trial,  with  Smuggler  two  lengths  back. 
The   queen  goes   sailing   off  in   front,    Lucille   at   Smuggler's 

girth, 
While  Fullerton  is  lapped  outside,  and  Doble,  looking  back, 

Has  reason  good  to  think  he  holds  a  mortgage  on  the  earth. 
For  never  yet  in  patent  trap  was  rat  more  surely  caught 
Than  was  the  stallion  pocketed  —  so  everybody  thought. 
Three  of  the  greatest  drivers  that  the  trotting-track  has  seen. 
Three  of  the  fastest  horses  —  aye,  and  one  of  them  a  queen  — 
Have  formed  a  combination  that  shall  make  her  throne  secure. 
"They've  got  him  fast !  "  the  watchers  cry;  "the  Maid  will  win 

It  sure  ! 
They  hold  him  till  the  stretch  is  reached  —  they'll  never  let  him 

through. 
Great  Scott!  what's  Marvin  thinking  of  ?    Good  Lord  !   what  can 

he  do  ? 


o 


6  Talcs  of  tfic  Turf. 


He  sudden  takes  the  stallion  back,  then  brings  him  on  outside. 
The  same  cyclonic  rush  again,  the  same  resistless  stride. 
Green  sees  the  white  face  rushing  by  and  quickly  turns  about, 
Then  loudly  shouts  above  the  din,  "  Look  out  there,   Budd;  he's 

out  !" 
And  Doble,  rattled,  seeks  the  whip  and  lays  it  on  the  mare; 
He  fairly  drives  her  off  her  feet  and  up  into  the  air. 
True  as  a  bullet  to  its  mark  the  stallion  rushes  by. 
Again  he  beats  her  by  a  neck,  while  hats  are  tossed  on  high, 
And  cheers  like  rockets  rise  from  earth  and  break  against  the 

sky. 

X. 

The  courtiers  wear  a  troubled  look;  there's  danger  in  the  air; 

The  throne  is  trembling  at  its  base;  a  rival's  drawing  nigh. 
"God  save  the  queen  ! "  again  they  shout, — 'tis  like   a  frenzied 

prayer, — 
And  hope  that  Night  her  starry  scarf  will  fling  across  the  sky. 
Six  times  they  score,  and  then  they're  off.      Good  Lord,  another 

game  ! 
'Tis  Fullerton  that  shows  the  way;   'tis  Mace's  fertile  brain 
That's  planned  the  scheme  by  which  they  hope  to  bolster  up  the 

throne 
On  which  the  queen  has  sat  for  years  and  ruled  her  hosts  alone. 
The  Maid  is  trailing  in  the  rear;  she  hangs  on  Smuggler's  wheel. 
You  catch  the  flash  of  silvered  rims  while  sulkies  rock  and  reel. 
The  trick  is  old  as  are  the  hills;  naught  's  new  beneath  the  sun; 
For  every  jock  has  played  the  game  —  they  call  it  "  two  pluck  one." 
The  leader's  flying  like  the  wind  —  he's  struck  a  storm-cloud's 

gait; 
He's  carried  Smuggler  to  the  half;  the  watches  mark  "one-eight!  " 
His  mission's  finished  on  the  turn,  and  now  the  Maid  oroes  out 
To  catch  the  steed  they  hope  to  tire  by  forcing  him  the  route. 
'Tis  all  in  vain.     The  stallion  comes  along  in  conscious  pride; 
There  is  no  soft  part  in  his  heart,  no  falt'ring  in  his  stride. 


Ike  Alurphy  s  Ride.  ^y 

"  The  queen  is  dead.      Long  live  the  king !  "     Get  ready  now  to 

cheer; 
Let  drums  be  beaten,  bugles  blown,  to  greet  the  victor  here  ! 
Resistless  as   the  whirlwind's  rush  where  summer  winds  have 

played, 
He  finishes  the  race  alone,  just  as  the  sunbeams  fade 
Into  the  night;  and  that  is  how  bold  Smuggler  beat  the  Maid. 

Let  fall  the  curtains.  Father  Time;  call  all  the  phantoms  back 
You  brought  from  out  the  misty  past  to  trot  a  race  to-day. 
Their  ghostly  hoofs  no  echoes  wake  when  pounding  on  the  track; 
The  driver's  lips  that  Death  has  sealed  can  neither  scoff  nor  pray. 
The  king  that  won,  the  queen  that  lost,  both,  both  have  passed 

away. 
Dan  Mace  has  driven  out  of  life.     Above  his  dust  to-night 
The  snow  lies  like  a  fleecy  scarf  and  hides  the  mound  from  sight. 
The  frost  is  thick  in  Marvin's  hair,  while  Doble  looks  alone 
Of  that  quintette  as  young  as  when  the  queen  was  overthrown. 
Though  fifteen  times  the  flowers  have  bloomed  and  fifteen  times 

the  snow 
Has  fallen  to  the  breast  of  earth  and  drifted  to  and  fro, 
Since  Smuggler  won  a  kingly  crown,  the  mem'ry  of  that  scene 
Will  live  as  lonor  as  roses  blush,  as  lono-  as  o-rass  orrows  ereen. 
Now  Marvin  brings,  from  Golden  Gates,  Sunol,  the  new-crowned 

queen. 


IKE  MURPHY'S  RIDE. 

(Monmouth  Park.) 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  Murphy's  ride,  and  I'll  make  it  clear: 
On  the  tenth  day  of  August,  in  eighty-five - 
Many  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year 


o 


8  Talcs  of  tJie  Tzirf. 

He  said  to  his  boss:    "If  McLaughlin  rides, 

As  I  think  he  will,  in  this  great  race, 
]\Iy  spurs  I'll  not  touch  to  the  gelding's  sides, 

But  I'll  let  him  go  out  and  make  the  pace; 
He  may  make  it  fast  or  make  it  slow. 
But  I'll  lay  behind  and  111  lay  quite  low, 
Ready  to  ride  when  the  finish  comes, 
Though  the  wind  may  whistle  and  blow  great  guns. 
While  the  Dwyers  curse  and  the  bay  horse  runs." 

Then  he  said,  "  I'll  win!"  and  he  crossed  the  track, 

Never  once  stopping  or  looking  back. 

Just  as  the  sun  from  behind  a  cloud 

Looked  down  at  earth  and  the  howling  crowd 

Of  bookmakers  that  stood  at  bay, 

And  wondered  which  it  was  best  to  play. 

As  their  fickle  memories  magnified 

The  races  they'd  seen  McLaughlin  ride. 

Meanwhile  his  boss  through  the  howling  crowd 
Wonders  and  listens  with  eager  ears. 
Till  in  the  sunlight  around  him  he  hears: 
"  I'll  lay  on  Miss  Woodford  five  to  four," 

The  roar  of  voices  that  shouted  it  loud, 

And  the  low,  sweet  voice  of  the   "  pencileers  " 

As  they  booked  his  bets  and  cried  for  more. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  big  grand  stand 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  a  heavy  tread, 

To  the  private  boxes  overhead. 

And  startled  the  ladies  from  their  seats 

On  the  painted  benches  that  round  him  lay, 

Brown  with  dust  in  the  yellow  day. 

By  a  winding  staircase,  somewhat  tall. 

To  the  highest  place  there  was  of  all. 


Ike  Murphy  s  Ride.  39. 

Where  he  stopped  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  girls  from  the  town, 
And  the  sunlight  gleaming  over  all. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  start  and  ride, 
With  jacket  of  green  and  cap  beside. 

On  the  opposite  side  Ike  Murphy  stood. 
Now  he  patted  bold  Freeland's  neck, 

Now  looked  away  to  the  distant  wood, 
While  the  noble  racer  stamped  the  earth, 
Then  turned  to  bite  at  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  eyes 
The  rival  jock  and  the  starter's  flag 
That  hung  o'er  the  white  fence  standing  near, 

Like  a  blood-red  rao-  in  the  sunlipfht  clear. 

But,  lo  !   as  he  looks  on  the  grass,  it  falls, 

A  glimmer  and  then  a  gleam  of  red; 

Then  he  tightens  the  bridle  and  turns  around, 

And  smiles,  with  a  nod,  as  he  softly  calls 

To  his  noble  horse  that  spurns  the  ground. 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  wild,  mad  dash  — 

Two  steeds  in  the  sunlight,  two  shapes  in  the  day. 

And  beneath  them  the  pebbles  struck  out  from  the  clay 

By  two  thoroughbreds  flying  and  under  the  lash. 

That  was  all,  and  yet  through  the  dust,  you  may  say. 

The  fate  of  an  owner  was  riding  that  day. 

That  night  there  was  many  a  ticket  to  pay. 

When  the  tale  was  told  by  the  lightning's  flash. 


You  know  the  rest.      In  the  books  you  have  read 
How  McLaughlin  kept  the  brown  mare  ahead, 
Till  Freeland  came  with  a  sudden  dart 
At  the  finish,  and  Isaac  proved  too  smart 


40  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

For  the  Dvvyers'  jock;  how  at  the  last 
He  nailed  him  just  as  the  post  was  passed. 
Oh,  I  tell  you  it  was  a  close-run   race. 
And  it  gave  to  Murphy  the  pride  of  place. 


WHEN  HUNTRESS  WON  THE  STAKE. 

(Washington  Park,  Chicago,   18S9.) 


It  was  an  ideal  racing-day:   the  sun  was  swinging  high, 

A  dazzling  golden  globe  of  light  beneath  an  azure  sky; 

The  roses,  blushing  red  and  white,  were  climbing  o'er  the  wall, 

While  robins  in  the  leafy  wood  were  sending  back  the  call 

Of    meadow  larks   that  upward   sprang   from   out    the   tangled 

grass. 
To  whisper  to  the  fleecy  clouds  that  swiftly'd  come  and  pass. 
It  was  a  peaceful  summer  scene,  but  echoes  soon  would  wake 
The  drowsy  cattle  from  their  sleep  if  Huntress  won  the  stake. 

II. 

The  grand  stand  held  a  brilliant  crowd.      In  fashion's  bright  array 
The  ladies  had  turned  out  in  force  to  see  the  race  that  day. 
The  club-house  steps,  with  members  thronged  all  through  those 

golden  hours. 
Seemed  some  pagoda  fringed  with  black  and  bursting  out  with 

flowers. 
The  hum  of  myriad  voices  seemed  to  echo  through  the  stand  — 
'Twas  like  the  moaning  of  the  sea  that's  heard  upon  the  sand, 
Though  now  and  then   some  eager  voice  the  humming  sound 

would  break; 
The  while  it  asked,  "Will  old   Montrose   or   Huntress   win   the 

stake  ?  " 


Whc7i  Htmtress  Woji  the  Stake. 


4.1 


III. 

The  betting  ring-  was  thronged  with  men — the  smooth  asphal- 

tum  floor 
Gave  back  in  echoes  loud  and  long  the  ring's  deep,  sullen  roar. 
About  the  bookies'  box-like  stands  the  crowd  surged  like  a  sea; 
'Twas  "  six  to  five  "  and  take  your  pick  —  no  choice  there  seemed 

to  be; 
And  ten  to  one  'gainst  Robin  Hood,  but  no  one  but  a  flat 
Who  didn't  know  a  horse  from  mule  would  nibble  e'en  at  that. 


:!-s^ 


"  '  Yoii've  got  him,  Jim  !  '      '  T/w  mare  loill  zoiii  ! 


A  duel  to  the  death  'twould  be,  and  many  hearts  would  ache 
Unless  the  gallant  Hankins'  mare  should  carry  ofl"  the  stake. 


**«! 


IV, 


A  bugle  sounding  loud  and  clear  was  echoed  by  a  shout. 
While  through  the  open  paddock  gate  McLaughlin,  riding  out 
Upon  the  famous  chestnut  mare,  was  greeted  with  such  cheers 
(I  seem  to  hear  their  echoes  now  come  floating  down  the  years) 


42  Talcs  of  the  Tiirf. 

As  greeted  him  but  once  before  upon  a  Western  track, 
When,  winner  of  the  great  EcHpse,  he  rode  Miss  Woodford  back 
To  weigh  in  at  St.  Louis.     Ah,  many  a  man  he'd  break 
If  Huntress,  Springbok's  daughter,  failed   that   day  to   win   the 
stake. 

V. 

Then  old  Montrose,  with  Lewis  up,  swept  by  with  steady  stride. 
With  arching  neck,  with  flashing  eyes  and  nostrils  opened  wide. 
Again  the  cheers  swept  o'er  the  track  and  hats  were  tossed  in  air, 
For  never  Western  course  had  seen  a  grander-looking  pair. 
Robin  Hood  passed  all  unnoticed,  with  Winchell   on  his  back  — 
What  chance  had  he  in  such  a  race,  when  run  on  such  a  track  ? 
They  stand  together  at  the  post;  a  pretty  scene  they  make; 
The  flag  falls  —  now  will    old  Montrose  or   Huntress  win  the 
stake  ? 

VI. 

The  purple  with  canary  sash  goes  dashing  by  the  stand; 
He's  leading  Huntress  by  a  length;   McLaughlin  has  in  hand 
The  chestnut  mare  that  carries  well  the  black  with  orange  sash. 
While  Robin  Hood,  already  last,  don't  figure  in  the  dash. 
Around  the  lower  turn  they  sweep  beneath  the  blazing  sun; 
And  still  the  Labold  colors  lead  —  the  race  is  now  half  run. 
"  Montrose  will  win  !  "    the  shouts  go  up;  and  all  the  echoes  wake; 
"  Five  thousand  to  three  thousand  now  that   Huntress  wins  the 
stake  !  " 

VII. 

Bold  Robin  Hood  was  done  for  ere  they  reached  the  upper  turn. 
It  took  a  royal  field  glass  then  the  leader  to  discern; 
But  those  who  watched  them  closely  saw  by  the  sunlight's  flash 
That  gaining,  surely  gaining,  was  the  black  with  orange  sash. 
A  furlong  out  Montrose  still  led;  there  fell  an  awful  hush 
Upon  the  multitude.      It  seemed  as  though  one  felt  the  rush 
Of  storm-clouds  through  the  sultry  air,  that  would  in  thunder 

break. 
If  Huntress  in  that  dash  for  cash  should  carry  off  the  stake. 


Dandy  Jini s  Dream.  43 

VIII. 

A  sixteenth  more,  the  race  was  o'er  —  one-sixteenth  of  a  mile; 
'Twas  scarce  the  beating-  of  a  heart,  the  flitting  of  a  smile; 
'Twas  scarce  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  a  pendulum  that  swung, 
The  rattling  of  those  flying  hoofs  that  echoes  wake  among 
The    shadows    underneath    the    stand.      "Come    on   there,    old 

Montrose  ! " 
"You've  got  him,  Jim!"     "The  mare  will  win!"     The  tumult 

louder  grows. 
The  race  is  run,  the  mare  has  won,  and  cheers  the  echoes  wake. 
For  Huntress,  Hankins'  chestnut  mare,  has  carried  off  the  stake. 

Above  the  winner  of  that  race  the  orrass  is  erowino-  ereen, 

For  Death  with  icy  fingers  stopped  and  touched  the  Western 

queen. 
Let's  hope  that  in  another  world,  if  other  world  there  be. 
She  roams  among  the  clover  from  the  touch  of  halter  free; 
That,  when  some  time  in  after  years  this  racing  tale  is  told, 
And,  standing  by  life's  sundown  bars,  we  dream  of  days  of  old, 
'Twill  stir  again  our  sluggish  blood,  and  bid  fond  memories  wake. 
To  look  back  to  that  summer  day  when  Huntress  won  the  stake, 

DANDY  JIM'S  DREAM; 

Or,  How  the  Brown  Colt  Won  the  Derby. 

In  a  little,  low,  thatched  stable,  in  the  Crescent  City,  lay 

"  Dandy  Jim,"  a  light-weight  jockey,  fast  asleep  upon  the  hay. 

While  the    rain-drops,  softly  falling  on    the    roof,  sang   merry 

rhymes; 
And    the    night    wind    on    its    bosom  brought    the     sound    of 

Christmas  chimes. 

O'er    his    couch    Death's    angel    hovered,    with    his     dark    and 

outstretched  wing, 
Like  a  messenger  awaiting  the  dread  summons  from  his  king; 


44  Talcs  of  the  Ttirf. 

But  the  jockey's  careworn  features  wore  a  sunny,  peaceful  smile  — 
Jim  was  dreaming  of  the  horses,  and  his  old  home  by  the  stile. 

All  the  old  life  passed  before  him  as  he  lay  there,  fast  asleep; 
Childish  prayers  he  softly  murmured,  praying  God  his  soul  to 

keep; 
While  the  gray-haired,  wrinkled  trainer,  in  whose  eyes  the  tears 

would  come, 
Muttered  softly,  "Jim   is  dying!     Angels  bring  him  dreams  of 

home." 

Slow  from  Time's  hands  dropped  the  minutes,  as  the  long  night 

drifted  by; 
Then  there  came  a  touch  of  crimson  in  the  far-off  eastern  sky, 
And  the  dying  jockey,  waking,  called  the  trainer  to  his  bed. 
"I've  been  dreaming,   John,"   he  whispered;   "listen    what    my 

dreamings  said: 

"  I  thought  that  I  lay  awake  in  the  grass, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  and  bright, 
Where  the  birds  and  the  shadows  come  and  pass,. 

And  the  cat-birds  call  at  night; 
And  the  big  brown  colt  in  the  stable  there 

Was  roaming  about  at  will. 
There  wasn't  a  sound  in  the  summer  air, 

Save  the  busy  water-mill  — 

"  Save  the  noise  of  the  brook  that  laughed  and  sang 

.'Midst  the  rushes  cool  and  green. 
And  a  robin's  song  in  the  wood  that  rang  — 

Oh  !   'twas  a  peaceful  scene. 
I  could  see  the  old  farm-house,  where  it  stood 

Just  under  a  maple  tree; 
I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  wood, 

The  sheen  of  the  far-off  sea. 


Dandy  Jini  s  Dream.  47 

"  I  could  see  the  apple  trees,  white  with  bloom, 

That  stood  by  the  em'rald  lane, 
And  the  roses  nodding  to  welcome  June, 

The  touch  of  her  hands  again. 
My  mother  I  heard,  as  she  softly  sang 

The  ballad  I  used  to  know, 
Of  the  flower  that  up  from  the  ashes  sprang 

With  its  petals  white  as  snow. 

"'Then  I  thought,  somehow,  that  I  fell  asleep; 

I  dreamed  of  the  old  race-track. 
With  the  grass  in  the  paddock  ankle- deep. 

And  the  stables  over  back; 
And  I  heard  the  sound  of  the  noisy  crowd 

One  hears  on  a  Derby  Day; 
And  the  bookies'  shouts  as  they  cried  aloud 

The  odds  that  they  wished  to  lay. 

"'And  I  saw  the  brown  colt  galloping  by: 

He  went  to  the  starting-post 
With  a  nervous  fire  in  his  flashing  eye; 

In  the  saddle  rode  a  ghost. 
The  jockey  men  saw  was  a  stranger  there, 

But  the  ghost  that  rode  was  me, 
With  the  grave-yard  dust  in  my  tangled  hair; 

And  the  colt  moved  strong  and  free. 

*'Then  I  saw  the  starter's  flag  go  down. 

And  'They're  off,'  I  heard  them  cry. 
A  black  was  ahead  of  your  slashing  brown. 

And  a  chestnut  colt  close  by. 
At  the  end  of  a  mile  a  gray  colt  led; 

The  black  at  his  withers  lay; 
AVhile  at  his  saddle-girths  the  chestnut  sped; 

The  brown  was  a  leno-th  awa\'. 


48  Talcs  of  the  Ttirf, 

"Then  a  cry  went  up  from  the  betting-stand^ 

'  See  !  the  big  gray  colt  is  done  ! ' 
'Ha  !  the  chestnut  wins;   he  is  well  in  hand. 

Great  God  !     See  the  brown  colt  come  ! ' 
Then  the  brown  and  the  chestnut,  side  by  side, 

Drew  out  from  the  black  and  gray; 
For  a  moment  they  raced  on  stride  for  stride, 

Then  the  brown  colt  drew  away. 

"Coming  on  like  an  arrow,  strong  and  true, 
We  won  by  a  length  or  more; 
He  had  carried  away  the  ribbon  of  blue, 

And  I  heard  the  ereat  crowd  roar. 
But  the  jock  men  saw  was  a  stranger  there, 

While  the  ghost  that  rode  was  me. 
Then  I  shook  the  dust  from  my  tangled  hair, 
But  never  a  man  could  see. 

"  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise,  John, 

That  you'll  start  that  colt  for  me 
In  the  Derby,  and  I  —  I'll  ride  him,  John, 

Though  my  ghost  you  may  not  see." 
This  the  trainer  promised,  then  turned  away 

As  Jim's  lips  moved  in  prayer. 
And  his  spirit  fled  in  the  dawning  gray. 

And  left  but  a  casket  there. 

In  a  little,  low,  thatched  stable,  in  the  Crescent  City,  lay 
Dandy  Jim,  the  light-weight  jockey,  dead  upon  his  couch  of  hay. 
Death  the  gift  the   Christ-child  brought  him,  as  he  changed  the 

cross  to  crown. 
When  he  called  the  lad,  grown  weary  —  bade  him  lay  his  burdens. 

down. 


Dandy  Jlins  Dream.  49 

Slowly  drifted  by  the  winter,  and  the  spring;  came  on  apace. 
One  by  one  the   books  were  opened  on  the  great  blue-ribbon 


race. 


'Gainst  the  chestnut,  "  ten  to  seven"  was  the  odds,  and  lower  down 
On  the  list,  and  marked  at  forties,  was  John's  slashing  colt,  the 
brown. 

Looked   he  every  inch  a  race-horse,  but,  when   moving   in   his 

work, 
He  would  somehow  try  to  bolt  it,  and  he  acted  like  a  shirk. 
Still  John  piled  the  money  on  him,  and  once  to  a  friend  he  said: 
"  My  brown  colt  will  win  the  Derby  !  Tis  a   promise  from  the 

dead." 

Derby  Day  at  last  arriving,  he  was  galloped  by  the  stand, 
With  a  stranger  in  the  saddle;  but  he  answered  each  command, 
Like  he  felt  some  hidden  pressure  on  the  slender  bridle-rein  — 
Felt  the  light  touch  of  a  master;  yet  he  knew  not  whence  it  came. 

Fell  the  flag,  as  Jim  had  dreamed  it,  with  the  black  colt  in  advance; 
Then  the  brown,  and  then  the  chestnut  closely  followed  in  the 

dance. 
At  the  mile  a  gray  was  leading,  while  the  black  beside  him  lay; 
At  his  saddle-girths  the  chestnut,  and  the  brown  a  length  away. 

"'Tis  Jim's  dream,"  the  trainer  muttered,  as  they  straightened 

out  for  home. 
"  Now  the  chestnut  colt  is  leading.      Great  God  !   see  the  brown 

colt  come! 
Drawing  level  with  the  chestnut,  puts  he  forth  his  giant  strength; 
Has  him  done  for  at  the  distance;  wins  by  just  an  open  length." 

By  a  little,  low,  thatched  stable,  on  a  famous  racing-track, 
Stood  the  winner  of  the  Derby,  with  a  great  crowd  at  his  back, 
While  the  trainer  told  the  story  of  his  dying  jockey's  dream: 
"'Twas  his  spirit,  men,  that  rode  him;  'twas  his  ghost  no  man 
hath  seen." 


•50  Talcs  of  the  Ticrf. 

AN   OWNER'S   OPINION. 

Eh?     What  do  I  think  o'  my  hoss's  chance? 

She  hasn't  the  ghost  o'  a  chance  at  all. 
Reckon  when  others  are  leadin'  the  dance 

You'll  find  her  down  at  the  foot  o'  the  hall. 
She  ain't  bin  out  o'  the  stall  fer  a  week, 

Ain't  no  account,  and  she  never  will  be. 
So  you've  backed  her,  eh  ?     Well,  you  hear  me  speak; 

She  never  will  be  in  the  hunt.     Now  see  ! 

A  pretty  good  mare  she  was  in  the  fall, 

Speedy  an'  game,  an'  could  carry  her  weight; 
Galloped  at  Nashville  away  from  'em  all  — 

Beat  some  o'  the  best  they  had  in  the  State; 
But  she  got  lung  fever  an'  nearly  died; 

She's  a  little  thick,  right  now,  in  her  wind; 
She's  sulky,  too,  an',  whenever  she's  tried. 

Seems  ter  delight  in  bein'  behind. 

What  was  there  agin  her  ?     Twenty  to  one  ? 

There  ought  to  be  fifty,  upon  my  word. 
Why,  after  the  manner  in  which  she's  run, 

The  lay  in'  o'  short  odds  like  that 's  absurd. 
That 's  her,  sir,  gallopin'  now  up  the  track. 

Eh?   Looks  pretty  well,  did  I  hear  you  sa)- ? 
That  fellow  o'er  yonder,  sir,  is  the  crack, 

An'  he  is  the  colt  that  should  win  to-day. 

Eh  ?     What    will  I  take  for  the  old  brown  mare  ? 

Wall,  she  ain't  for  sale,  I'm  sorry  to  say. 
As  she  may  round  to  with  the  proper  care 

An'  win  me  a  thunderin'  stake  some  day. 
No,  she  isn't  handsome,  that  I'll  allow; 

Neither  am  I,  so  we  make  a  good  pair. 
But  I  haven't  quite  lost  faith  yet,  I  vow. 

In  the  racin'  powers  o'  my  old  brown  mare. 


All  Owner  s  Opinion. 

No,  she  hasn't  a  chance  on  earth  to-day 

To  win,  or  even  to  run  to  a  place. 
An'  you're  mighty  fooHsh,  I  think,  to  play 

A  hoss  like  her  in  this  sort  of  a  race. 
I  jest  put  ten  on  that  ches'nut  o'  Brown's  — 

He  thinks  mighty  well  o'  his  colt,  I  know. 
An'  I'd  wager  more  only  Fortune's  frowns 

Have  made  my  pile  most  mightily  low. 

I'm  sorry,  sir,  that  you're  backin  the  mare; 

You  should  have  seen  me  when  you  first  came  out. 
I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  an'  you  know  I'm  square: 

She  isn't  quite  up  to  so  long  a  route. 
In  a  couple  o'  weeks  or  so,  I  think, 

Perhaps  she'll  be  fit  fer  a  bruisin'  race. 
Now,  sir,  after  the  chestnut  wins,  we'll  drink, 

Fer  ye  know  I'm  backin'  him  straight  an'  place. 

Thar,  darn  it,  they're  off,  an'  my  crimson  sash 

Is  away  in  the  lead  as  sure  as  fate; 
Looks  like  she'd  gallop  away  wi'  the  cash. 

Come  on  thar,  my  honey !     Come  on,  my  Kate  ! 
She  wins  in  a  gallop  as  sure's  you're  born  ! 

I  hadn't  a  cent  on  her,  as  you  see. 
Why,  she  couldn't  gallop  a  bit  this  morn. 

An'  now  she's  won  it,  an'  done  fooled  me. 


51 


52  Talcs  of  the  Turf, 

BETTIE  SniPKINS'  MARE. 

Hidden  deep  in  the  Sierras,  far  below  the  peaks  of  snow, 
Lay  the  Httle  camp  of  Haley's  in  the  summers  long  ago, 
And  the  river  that  ran  singing  like  a  siren  through  the  lands 
Held  a  wealth  of  golden  treasures  deeply  hidden  in  its  sands. 

Gold  was  god  of  all  the  miners,  but  their  goddess  was  a  girl. 
Golden-haired    and    fair    of    feature,    whom    they'd    christened 

"Little  Pearl"  — 
Daughter  she  of  Farmer   Simpkins,  owner  of  a  plot  of  ground 
Lower  down  within  the  valley,  which  he  tilled  the  year  around. 

Suitors  Bettie  had  a  plenty,  for  the  girl  was  wondrous  fair, 
But  the  only  thing  that  won  her  was  a  little  chestnut  mare. 
And  all  day  among  the  mountains  she  was  riding  to  and  fro 
'Mongst  the  pines  that  stood  and  whispered  there  below  the  peaks 
of  snow. 

Summers   came  and   summers   vanished,  and   the   village   grew 

apace, 
And  as  older  grew  the  village  grew  the  girl    in  woman's  grace. 
Older,  too,  in  strength  and  beauty  grew  the  little  chestnut  mare 
That  was  given  o'er  to  Bettie  and  became  the  maiden's  care. 

Year  by  year  the  crops  grew  shorter;  but  the  old  man  heeded  not, 
Till  Necessity's  stern  mandate  put  a  mortgage  on  the  lot. 
Then  there  entered  Care  and  Trouble  at  the  little  cottage  door  — 
Entered,  too,  the  ghost  of  Famine  —  took  its  place  upon  the  floor. 

Naught  knew  Bettie  of  the  trouble,  until  months  had  rolled  away, 
When  the  farmer,  worn   and  weary,  told   her   of  their  shortened 

stay 
In  the  cottage;  for  the  int'rest  on  the  mortgage  was  unpaid. 
And  the  sheriff  only  waited  for  the  word  to  make  his  raid. 

Bettie  only  smiled  in  answer,  while  the  tears  bedimmed  her  eyes, 
Bent  and  kissed  the  old  man  lightly,  like  a  woman  worldly  wise. 


Bcttic  Siuipkins  Mare.  53 

*'  God  will  help,"  she  softly  whispered;  "  He  will  heed  a  daughter's 

prayer." 
Then  went  out  and  told  her  trouble  to  the  little  chestnut  mare. 

Far  away  in  quaint  Sonora  there  was  held  a  county  fair, 
And,  to  wager  on  the  racing,  gathered  all  the  miners  there; 
But  the  great  and  chief  attraction  was  a  thousand-dollar  race, 
Free  for  all,  to  rule  and  harness,   and  'twas  this  that  filled  the 
place. 

These  the  entries  that  were  given  out  in  town  the  night  before: 
First  the  stallion  Knight  of  Costa;  then  a  gelding  called  The  Moor ; 
Then  the  mare  Queen  of  Sonora,  and  a  gelding  called  Take  Care; 
Then  a  horse  no  one  had  heard  of  entered  Bettie  Simpkins'  mare. 

When  the  race  was   called   next   morning  and  there  rang  the 

judges'  bell, 
Came  there  out  four  grizzled  drivers,  bowing  to  the  miners'  yell; 
Then  a  boyish  fellow  followed  with  a  jockey  cap  drawn  down 
O'er  a  fair  and  girlish  forehead— he  a  stranger  in  the  town. 

Little  time  was  lost  in  scoring,  and  the  judges  gave  the  word, 
With  the  Knight  of  Costa  leading  and  a-trotting  like  a  bird. 
Quickly  sped  he  down  the  backstretch,  followed  closely  by  Take 

Care, 
While,  like  death,  upon  his  quarter  hung  the  little  chestnut  mare. 

In  the  stretch  they  swung  together.      Knight  of  Costa  soon  was 

beat; 
Then  the  mare  made  play  for  Take  Care,  and  the  gelding  left  his 

feet, 
While  she,  coming  strong  and  steady,  passed  beneath  the  judges' 

stand, 
Winner  of  the  heat  in  thirty,  and  still  trotting  well  in  hand. 


54 


Talcs  of  the  Turf, 


The  next  heat  the  mare  won  easy,  jogging-  in  almost  alo^ne, 
With  the  Knight  of  Costa  distanced  and  his  backers'  money  flown. 
While  the  miners  cursed  and  shouted,  some  in  sorrow,  some  in  joy, 
And  the  baffled  gra)-haired  drivers  swore  at  fortune  and  the  boy. 


^r^  ?r 


"  And  she  said,  Win  Betlie  Simpkins.^  " 

When  they  went  away  the  third  time 'twas  the  Queen  that  showed 

the  way, 
With  the  Moor  right  at  her  throat-latch  and  the  mare  a  length  away ; 
And  the  watchers  marked  no  changes  till   they  squared  away  for 

home. 
Then  a  shout  came  from  the   miners:    "  See   the  little   chestnut 

come  !  " 


Bettie  Simp  kins   Mare.  55 

Trotting  like  a  locomotive,  soon  she  left  behind  the  Moor, 

And  drew  level  at  the  distance  with  the  Queen.      "  She  11  wui  it, 


sure  !  " 


Yelled  the  miners;  then  they  shouted,  for  the  Queen  had  left  her 


feet, 


And  the  handsome  little  chestnut  jogged  in  winner  of  the  heat. 

But  the  cheers  gave  place  to  silence,  for  about  the  judges'  stand 
Soon  there  o-athered  all  the  drivers,  each  a  whip  held  in  his  hand. 
And  the  spokesman  of  the  party,  he  the  driver  of  the  Queen 
Claimed  the  chestnut  mare  had  fouled  him.  as  his  partners  all  had 


seen, 


First  the  judges  heard  in  silence  what  the  veterans  had  to  say; 
Then  they  asked  the  boyish  driver  to  explain  the  tale  away. 
As  he  raised  his  cap  to  answer,  down  there  fell   a  woman  s  hair. 
And  she  said.   "  I'm  Bettie  Simpkins,  and  this   Bettie  Simpkins 


mare. 


Gazed  the  judges  down  in  wonder  at  the  maiden  s  flashing  eyes. 
While   the    other    drivers,    shamefaced,    turned    away    in    their 

surprise.  i       •    j        ' 

Then    there   came   the   quick    announcement  from    the   judges 

watching-place: 
"  We  give  to  Bettie  Simpkins  mare  the  third  heat  and  the  race. 

There  arrived  a  few  days  afterward  at  Farmer  Simpkins'  place 
The  sheriff  and  his  posse,  and  they  found  Miss  Bettie  there. 

"Here's  the  money  for  your  mortgage,  sir;  I  won  it  on  a  race.^^ 
She  said,  "down  at  Sonora,  where  I  drove  my  chestnut  mare. 

The  old  man  looked  down  in  wonder,  and  then,  kneeling  on  the 

floor. 
He  cried,  ''O  God,  I  thank  thee,  and  if  racing  be  a  sin. 
I  will  promise  thee  my  Bettie,  Lord,  shall  never  do  it  more. 
Thou   knowest  she  was   honest,  and  she  drove  the   mare  to 

win." 


56  Tales  of  the  TiLvf. 

Soon    a   stranger  came  from  'Frisco  who  had  heard  about  the 
race, 
Was  introduced  to  Bettie,  and  he  tried  to  buy  the  mare  — ■ 
He  offered  a  cool  ten  thousand;  she  dechned  the  same  with  grace. 
But  still  he  kind  of  lingered,  with  his  heart  caught  in  her  hair. 
On  sped    the  weeks  with  flying  feet    and  found  him  lingering- 
there; 
And  then  there  came  a  wedding  up  at  Farmer  Simpkins'  place. 
The  groom  ?     That  chap  from  'Frisco.      So   I   got  the  chestnut 
mare, 
But,  better  yet,  the  maiden  that  had  driven  her  the  race. 


SHOWING  THE  THOROUGHBREDS. 

(Beli.e  Meadp:,  October,  1887.) 

Belle  Meade  lay  sleeping  in  the  sun 

That  golden  autumn  day. 
The  live  oaks  wore  their  scarlet  coats 

And  breeches  lichen-gray. 
The  beech  had  changed  its  green  attire 

For  dress  of  brown  and  gold, 
And  blue-grass  pastures  far  away 

In  emerald  billows  rolled. 

Beside  the  stables  snowy  white 

The  Nation's  chieftain  stood; 
A  woman,  with  her  eyes  alight, 

Looked  on  in  happy  mood; 
While  Uncle  Bob,  a  colored  man, 

With  hair  of  silver  gray. 
Led  out  the  gallant  thoroughbreds 

That  make  Belle  Meade  to-day. 


Skozvinc  the  Thorottohbrcds. 


57 


"  Dis  yar  boss,  Mistah  President, 

Am  Bonnie  Scotlan's  son, 
Ole  Bramble.    'Spec's  youh  lady,  sah, 

Hab  heerd  how  he  could  run. 
He  carried  Dwyah's  red  and  blue, 

An',  wid  McLaughlin  up. 
He  beat  de  bes'  ones  ob  his  day, 

When  racin  fo'  de  Cup. 


,  ...- ^    ,,  "  This  yar  hoss,  Mistah  Presiden\ 

Am  Bonnie  Scotian^s  son." 

"  Tak'  kyeer  dar,  Mister  President, 

Don'  cret  too  clus  his  heels; 
He  don'  mean  nuffin'  when  he  kicks, 

Jes'  shows  how  good  he  feels. 
Dat  leetle  brown  colt  ober  dar 

Am  one  of  Bramble's  git; 
'Specs,  if  dey  gibs  him  half  de  chance, 

He'll  siah  some  racers  yit. 


58  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

"  Dis  chestnut  heah  am  Enquiah; 

He's  gettin'  mighty  old. 
I  reckon  dat  his  get  hab  brought 

Dis  fa'm  his  weight  in  gold. 
From  Californy  to  de  Eas', 

Whereber  dey  may  be, 
De  boys  all  know  ole  Enquiah, 

De  pride  ob  Tennessee. 

"  He  's  daddy  to  de  great  Miss  Foad, 

Dat  carried  Bal'win's  cross 
Up  in  Chicago,  Derby  Day, 

An'  sulk,  or  couldn't  los' 
Dat  great  stake  carried  off  by  Todd. 

The  mighty  Egmon',  too, 
Am  one  of  dis  ole  fellah's  sons. — 

Heah!   Stop,  -ah!   Dat'll  do. 

"  You  needn't  go  to  tear  my  clo'es^ 

'Cause  you's  so  mighty  proud 
Ob  standin'  foah  de  President 

An'  dis  uncommon  crowd. 
De  lady  wants  to  pat  youh  nose; 

Dat's  right;  stoop  down  your  head. 
Whoa,  dar  !   Stan'  mighty  quiet  now. 

An'  show  that  you's  well  bred. 

"  Heah,  sah,  's  de  king  ob  de  whole  lot,- 

Tak'  ole  Bob's  word  fo'  dat, — 
Luke  Blackburn,  jes'  de  gran'est  hoss 

Dat  eber  trod  de  flat. 
Jes'  look,  sah,  at  dat  satin  coat 

A-shinin'  in  the  sun; 
Look  at  dem  powahful  quahtahs,  sah, 

An'  say  he  couldn't  run. 


Showing  the  Thoroughbreds.  59 

"Jes'  let  youh  missus  step  dis  way 

An'  pat  dis  beauty's  nose. 
She  likes  a  fin'  boss  mos'  as  well 

As  my  gal  do  fine  clo'es. 
Dis  boss  am  migbty  young  as  yit, 

But  wben  be's  had  de  chance 
He'll  bab  some  sons  and  daughtahs,  sab, 

Dat  's  boun'  to  lead  de  dance. 

"Dis  brown  one  berry  famous,  sab  — 

De  mighty   Iroquois; 
He  won  de  English  Derby,  sab, 

Much  to  de  people's  joy. 
I  t'ink  sometime  he  toss  his  head 

About  as  if  he  knew 
He  mak'  ole  Englan'  mighty  sick 

Ob  our  red,  white  an'  blue. 

"  He  looks  aroun'  him  mighty  peert 

An  sassy  all  de  while; 
He's  t'inkin'  'bout  de  Prince  of  Wales  — 

Dat  mak's  you'b  lady  smile. 
He  don'  know  you  's  de  President, 

I  specs  he  doesn't  car'; 
He's  berry  English  in  his  ways  — 

Mus'  larned  em  ober  dar. 

"Dis  am,  de  las'  one  ob  de  lot, 

Great  Tom,  de  English  boss, 
Impoahted  by  de  Gin'ral,  sab, 

Who  t'ought  bimjes'  de  boss. 
He  ain't  no  berry  great  shakes,  sah, 

Leas'wise  dat  I  can  fin' — 
His  sons  and  daughtahs,  mos'  ob  dem, 

Hab  alius  run  bebin'. 


6o  Talcs  of  the  1  itrf. 

"  Dar,  sah,  you  seen  de  mighty  steeds 

Dat  mak'  Belle  Meade  to-day, 
An'  when  you  reads  ob  racin'  deeds, 

Ef  mem'ry  turns  dis  way, 
Jes'  kin'ly  t'ink  ob  Uncle  Bob, 

De  po'  ole  colored  man 
Youh  visit  to  dis  fa'm  hab  made 

De  proudes'  in  de  Ian'. " 


THE  PADDOCK  GATE,  AND  HOW  IT  WAS  OPENED. 

Bring;  out  my  racing-jacket.  Bob,  and  lay  it  on  the  bed; 

rd  like  to  put  it  on  again,  just  once  before  I  die. 
Ah,  many,  many  times,  my  lad,  Pve  worn  that  blue  and  red; 

First  past  the  post  on   Southern  tracks,  and  'neath  a  Northern 
sky. 

You  heard,  lad,  what  the  doctor  said  ?     Nay,  there's  no  need  o' 
tears  — 

ril  weigh  out  at  the  judges'  stand,  I  reckon,  Bob,  all  right. 
Pve  never  done  a  crooked  act  in  all  my  forty  years, 

And  dying  only  means  to  sleep,  to  bid  the  world  good-night. 

I  don't  see  how  I  fell  to-day —  I  seemed  to  have  it  won. 

I  never  knew  the  big  black  colt  to  stumble,  lad,  before; 
The  favorite  that  Martin  rode  I  had  already  done, 

And  I  saw  the  chestnut  falter  when  we  passed  the  stable  door. 

The  gray  was  at  my  saddle-girths  —  I  knew  I  had  him  beat, 
For  Cunningham    was  urging  him  e'en  then  with  whip  and 
steel, 

While  I  was  sitting  easy-like  and  quiet  in  my  seat 

And  humming  o'er  the  music  o'  the  old  Virginny  Reel. 


't^iumffefT''~n'  " 


^       i 


^ 


The  Paddock  Gate,  and  Jioiv  it  luas  Opened.  6^^ 

The  track  flew  out  behind  me  like  a  ribbon  all  unrolled; 

The  hoofs  made  merry  music  as  they  echoed  from  the  track; 
The   grand  stand  in   the   sunlight   seemed  a  gleaming  mass  o' 
gold  ; 

Then  came  a  sense  o'  falling,  and  before  me  all  grew  black. 

What  happened  then,  I  cannot  tell !      It  didn't  hurt  the  black. 
The  boys  all  say  —  and,  lad,  you  know  I'm  mighty  glad  o'  that. 

That  colt  is  bound  to  make  his  mark  some  day  upon  the  track. 
The  boys  will  find  him  bad  to  beat  when  racing  on  the  flat. 

Now  move  your  chair  up  closer,  lad.     You  know  my  little  Kate  ? 

Her  mother  died  ten  years  ago,  ten  years  this  very  day. 
Ah,  me  !  no  man  had  ever  yet  a  better  running  mate 

Than  I  until  the  angels  came  and  carried  her  away. 

The  girl  is  like  her  mother,  lad:  the  same  brown  hair  and  eyes; 

The    self-same   dimples   in    her   cheeks;    a    laugh    like    silver 
chimes; 
A  heart  as  liofht  as  thistle-down  that  floats  'neath  summer  skies, 

Yet  pure  as  is  the  virgin  gold  that  comes  from  mountain  mines. 

Take  her  the  papers  in  my  chest — I've  left  to  her  the  farm; 

This  ring  upon  my  finger  here  her  mother  used  to  wear  — 
And  promise  me  that,  while  you  can,  you'll  shield  her  safe  from 
harm, 

I  trust  you  as  no  other,  lad;  so  make  the  lass  your  care. 

Tell  her,  for  she  is  rich,  my  lad,  to  use  her  riches  well, 

For  money  makes  not  happiness,  and  riches  oft  take  wings. 

'Tis  better  in  a  cottage  where  Love  sits  enthroned  to  dwell 
Than  to  sit  down  with  Indifference  in  a  palace  made  by  kings. 

Why,  Bob  !   I'm  growing  strangely  weak  —  nay,  leave  the  colors 
there: 

I'm  going  to  take  a  little  nap;   I'll  waken  by  and  by. 
*'  If  I  should  die  before  I  wake"  — why!   that's  an  infant's  prayer! 

Lift  up  the  curtains,  lad,  a  bit;   I  wish  to  see  the  sky. 


64  Talcs  of  the  Til?-/. 

Turn  up  the  light  a  Httle,  Bob;   it's  getting  mighty  dark. 

Was  that  the  saddhng-bell  that  rang  ?     Come,  hurry  !     I'll  be 
late. 
There's  Saunderson  !    I  thought  him  dead.    By  Jove  !  he's  on  The 
Lark  ! 
Give  me  a  hand.      All   ready,  sir  !      Swing  wide  the  paddock 
gate. 

The  gate  that  opened  no  man  saw.     The  angel  at  the  bars 
Stood  sentry  while  a  jockey  rode  out  on  the  silent  track 

That  leads,  so  books  and  preachers  say,  to  lands  beyond  the  stars; 
But  none  who've  ridden  through  that  gate  have  ever  yet  come 
back. 


"SCOTTY." 

(Montana,  1S85.) 

Scotty?  "   Yes,  stranger,  that's  my  hoss. 
How's  he  bred?  Well,  he's  kind  o'  a  cross 
'Tween  Morgan  stud  an'  a  mustang  mare. 
Looks  like  a  Morgan  ?     Well,  now,  I  swear, 
Sometimes  I  think  so,  and  then  ag'in 
I  can't  see  whar  the  good  blood  comes  in. 
I  raised  him  up  from  a  suckin'  colt, 
An'  buckin'  is  nigh  on  his  best  holt. 

Will  I  sell  him?   No,  sir,  stranger,  no; 
Thar  ain't  gold  enough  on  earth  below 
To  buy  that  hoss.      Ye  may  think  it  strange,, 
But  I  fancy  that,  when  I  cross  the  range, 
The  Master '11  say:   "Jim,  you  did  well 
To  keep  that  hoss,  an'  never  to  sell." 
And  keep  him  's  what  I  intends  to  do, 
Lone  as  thar  's  forage  enough  for  two. 


''Scotty:' 

He  ain't  wuth  much  ?     Not  to  you,  perhaps. 
That  same  remark  has  been  made  by  chaps 
As  don't  know  nothin'  about  that  hoss. 
But  better  set  down.      Thar  's  a  story,  boss, 
'Bout  Scotty,  an'  as  thar's  nobody  by, 
I'll  tell  it  —  thank'ee,  a  little  rye. 
I  never  takes  no  sugar  in  mine; 
Spoilin'  good  liquor  ain't  in  my  line. 


65 


I     > 


-^M 


1  1 


^M 


"  I  saddled  Scotty,  and  just  as  day 
Broke  o'er  the  niotintains,  I  rode  away.''^ 

One  winter,  nigh  on  five  years  ago. 

When  the  roads  was  blocked  with  driftin'  snow, 

An'  a  blizzard  swept  the  canyon  here, 

Till  the  old  oaks'  branches  shrieked  wi'  fear, 

The  wife  that  I  wed  eight  years  ago, 

Wi'   her  bronze  brown  hair  an'  her  neck  o'  snow, 

Were  taken  sick  in  the  dead  o'  night, 

An'  us  alone  —  not  a  soul  in  sio-ht. 


66  Talcs  of  the    Turf. 

She  grew  wuss  fast.      When  the  mornin'  come 
It  looked  Hke  Hfe's  sands  most  had  run. 
She  whispered  faint,  "For  God's  sake,  Jim, 
Get  the  doctor  here  from  the  town  o'  Lynn." 
I  saddled  Scotty,  an'  just  as  day 
Broke  o'er  the  mountains,  I  rode  away. 
An'  as  I  went  on  I  seemed  to  see 
Her  small  white  hands  as  they  reached  for  me. 

In  just  three  hours,  or  a  trifle  more, 
Perhaps,  I  had  reached  the  doctor's  door 
An'  told  my  mission.      He  shook  his  head  — 

"By  the  time  I  get  there  she  '11  be  dead; 
For  that  hoss  of  mine  is  old  an'  slow. 
An'  he'll  lose  his  way  in  the  driftin'  snow." 

"Take  Scotty,  doctor;  give  him  his  head, 
An'  save  my  lassie,"  were  all  I  said. 

I  watched  him  ride  through  the  drifts  away, 
An'  somehow,  stranger,  my  lips  would  pray 
That  God  would  give  Scotty  strength  an'  speed 
To  save  my  wife  in  the  hour  o'   need. 
Then  goin'  out  in  the  howlin'  storm, 
I  foun'  my  way  to  the  doctor's  barn, 
An'  takin'  his  hoss,  a  spavined  bay, 
I  saddled  him  up  and  rode  away. 

The  night  had  covered  the  mountains  o'er 
\Vi'  sable  cloaks  when  I  reached  the  door 
O'  my  cabin  home,  an'  I  could  see 
In  fancy  my  wife's  hands  reached  to  me; 
An'  my  heart  stood  still,  all  froze  wi'  dread, 
As  I  thought  perhaps  she  mought  be  dead. 
I  opened  the  door  to  find  my  wife  — 
An'  a  baby  gal  had  crept  to  life. 


Ill  Litck  Both   Ways.  67 

The  Doc  had  gotten  thar  sharp  at  nine; 

He  said  himself  he  were  just  in  time. 

It  moLig-ht  have  been  't  was  my  whispered  pra'r; 

I'll  always  think  it  were  Scotty  thar; 

An'  though  I  knows  it  ain't  etiquette 

For  a  man  to  make  his  hoss  a  pet, 

You  can't  have  Scotty;   no,  not  for  gold. 

The  reason  why — he  ain't  to  be  sold. 


IN  LUCK  BOTH  WAYS. 

I  tell  you  a  tale  that  was  told  to  me 

In  the  early  dawn  by  a  stable  door, 
While  the  moon  that  sank  in  the  far-off  sea 
Seemed  to  lift  the  dark  from  the  sandy  shore. 
It  was  told  by  a  trainer  old  and  gray  — 
A  Texas  man  —  in  a  Texan's  way. 

"I  hed  a  hoss  called  Butterball 

Some  thirty  years  ago, 
Seemed  rather  undersized  an'  small; 

He  were  a  whirlwind  though. 
I  never  seed  a  hoss  like  him 

Afore  or  since  that  day 
He  galloped  home  a  winner  in 

The  Autumn  Cup.      Then  Clay 

''Allowed  he  were  the  grandest  hoss 

Thet  ever  he  hed  seen; 
An'  offered  me  ten  thousan'  cash 

An'  his  mare,  Betsy  Green, 
Ef  I  would  sell  him;  but,  you  see, 

I  wasn't  sich  a  fool. 
What  does  fer  others  does  fer  me, 

Has  allers  bin  my  rule. 


68  Talcs  of  the   Turf. 

"Twere  way  down  South  in  New  Orleans; 

Me  an'  my  hoss  waz  thar, 
A  kind  o'  lookin'  'round  fer  greens, 

But  runnin'  on  the  squar'. 
I  'd  won  a  pesky  purse  er  two, 

Enough  to  buy  him  oats, 
But  I  'd  some  bills  a-comin'  due. 

An'  wasn't  flush  wi'  notes. 

"I  'd  heerd  about  the  Autumn  Cup, 

An'  entered  Butterball. 
I  meant  ef  a  good  hoss  kim  up 

Ter  never  start  et  all. 
I  'lowed  ther  forfeit  I  could  pay 

Ef  cracker-jacks  kim  in, 
Then  start  ag'in  some  other  day 

When  sure  that  I  could  win. 

"  Two  days  afore  the  Cup  waz  run 

I  giv  my  hoss  a  tri'l. 
He  fairly  made  the  watches  hum 

A-workin'  thet  three  mile. 
I  sez,  '  Jerusha,' — she's  my  wife  — 

Er  waz  in  them  old  days, 
'Fore  a  divorce  court  crossed  my  life 

An'  took  her  from  my  gaze, — 

"  I  sez,  '  Jerusha,  sure  ez  sin, 
I'll  win  wi'  Butterball.' 
'Now,  Tom,'  sez  she,  'ef  you  does  win, 

I  wants  a  hat  this  fall.' 
Them  waz  her  very  only  words, 

"Cept  thet  she  added  on 
Bout  wantin'  et  all  trimmed  wi'  birds 
Ez  had  their  feathers  on. 


In  Ltick  Both   Ways,  69 

*'  Et  last  ther  Cup  day  kim  along. 

Oh,  Lord  !  but  I  were  blue, 
Fer  there  were  Sweetheart,  owned  by  Strong, 

An'  Makin's  hoss,  Ther  Jew; 
But,  wuss  than  all,  that  feller  Clay 

Hed  entered  Betsy  Green, 
An'  somewhar  from  ther  Texas  way 

They'd  brought  down  Prairie  Queen. 

*'  I  'lowed  right  off  thet  I  were  done. 

An'  tried  to  draw  ther  hoss. 
Ther  judges  wanted  all  ther  fun. 

An'  stated,   mighty  cross, 
Thet  I  hed  come  along  too  late 

Ter  draw  my  hoss  et  all; 
They  'lowed  I'd  start  ez  sure  ez  fate 

Thet  brown  hoss,  Butterball. 

*'  Sez  I,  'All  right,'  an'  saddlin'  up 

I  sent  him  ter  ther  post. 
'  Now  ef  you  wins  ther  Autumn  Cup.' 

Sez  I,  'yer  jist  a  ghost; 
But  then  I'll  buy  a  pool,  because 

Yer  might  win  arter  all.' 
Three  thousan'  ter  a  hundred  waz 

Ther  odds  gin  ButterbalL 

"  Now,  right  hyar's  whar  ther  fun  kim  in. 

Them  judges  waz  so  smart; 
My  hoss  went  right  along  an'  win  — 

Upset  their  apple-cart. 
He  jumped  out  at  ther  fall  o'  flag. 

An'  never  stopped  at  all; 
Thar  wasn't  nary  single  nag 

Ez  eot  near  Butterball. 


^o  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

"  Thet  night  Jerusha  —  wife  as  waz  — 

She  kim  an'  said  ter  me, 
*  I  wants  thet  new  hat  now,  because 

Yer  won  the  Cup,  I  see.' 
'  Hyar's  jest  a  thousan'  in  cold  cash,' 

I  sez;   'don't  spar'  expense.' 
She  got  ther  hat,  an'  made  er  mash  — 

I've  never  seen  her  sence. 

"  Et  fust  I  felt  most  mighty  bad 

Ter  find  out  she  hed  gone; 
The  darkest  hour,  you  know,  't  is  said, 

Is  just  afore  ther  dawn. 
Since  then  I  'm  happier  in  my  mind; 

More  peaceful  are  my  days; 
Ther  Lord  I  think  uncommon  kind 

Ter  send  sich  luck  both  ways." 


OLD  FREELAND. 

They  are  schooling  Freeland  over  the  timber, 

Over  the  fences  and  walls  of  stone. 
My  heart  flames  up  like  a  dying  ember 

That  burns  in  the  darkness  all  alone; 
And  I  fancy  again,  as  I  sit  here  dreaming, 

I  hear  the  cheers  from  the  crowded  stand, 
As  they  hailed  him  there  in  the  sunlight  gleaming, 

The  grandest  race-horse  in  all  the  land. 

Oh,  turn  him  out  in  a  field  of  clover  — 
Out  in  the  clover  up  to  his  knees; 

Now  that  his  racing-days  are  over. 
Give  him  a  life  of  lordly  ease. 


Old  Frecland.  yi 

You  have  not  foro-otten  that  August  weather  — 

Swiftly  the  picture  comes  back  to  me  — 
When  he  and  Miss  Woodford  raced  together 

Down  at  the  Branch  by  the  sounding  sea. 
Oh,  look  at  them  now  as  the  finish  they  're  nearing, 

Measuring  swiftly  each  stride  for  stride. 
Hark  !   don't  you  hear  the  wild  Westerners  cheering  ? 

Freeland  has  won,  by  a  queen  defied. 


"  The  grandest  race-horse  in  all  the  land. " 

Oh,  turn  him  out  in  a  field  of  clover  — 
Out  in  the  clover  up  to  his  knees; 

Now  that  his  racing-days  are  over, 
Give  him  a  life  of  lordly  ease. 

The  great  races  he  won  will  live  in  story 
When  you  and  I  have  been  laid  to  sleep; 

Others  will  tell  of  his  vanished  glory 

When  over  our  graves  the  grasses  creep 


*j2  Talcs  of  the  Tiirf. 

Tell  how  the  bright  red  with  blue  sash  of  the  Dwyers 
Was  trailed  by  him  in  the  dust  and  clay; 

How  the  green  and  white  on  the  king  of  flyers 
Led  the  great  queen  past  the  post  that  day. 

Oh,  turn  him  out  in  a  field  of  clover  — 
Out  in  the  clover  up  to  his  knees; 

Now  that  his  racing-days  are  over, 
Give  him  a  life  of  lordl)'  ease. 

He  is  crippled  now  and  can  race  no  longer; 

His  work  is  over,  his  mission  done. 
Then  trouble  him  not  on  the  race-track  longer; 

Let  him  gambol  and  dream  in  the  sun. 
Turn  him  loose  in  a  field  where  the  sunbeams  quiver 

In  broken  lances  among  the  leaves; 
Where  the  grass  creeps  down  to  the  rushing  river, 

And  reapers  sing  as  they  bind  their  sheaves. 

Oh,  turn  him  out  in  a  field  of  clover  — 
Out  in  the  clover  up  to  his  knees; 

Now  that  his  racing-days  are  over, 
Give  him  a  life  of  lordlv  ease. 


THAT  THOROUGHBRED  NELL. 

A  Tale  of  Kentucky  i\  1S63. 

Did  vou  ever  hear  tell  of  a  brown  mare  called  Nell, 
That  was  bred  in  Kaintuck,  on  the  old  Ashland  farm  ? 

Of  the  race  that  she  run  and  the  stake  that  she  won  ? 

What!     You  haven't?     Sit  down,  then;  Fll  spin  you  the  yarn; 

'Twas  in  June,  sixty-three,  and  the  hum  o'  the  bee 
Was  a  sound  rarely  heard  about  Lexington  way, 

For  the  rattling  o'  guns  and  the  snarling  o'  drums 
Made  the  most  o'  the  music  we  heard  ev'ry  day. 


That  ThorouoJibrcd  Nell.  y •^ 

In  a  little  brown  cot  at  the  edgre  of  a  lot, 

On  the  old  turnpike  road  that  led  down  to  the  fort, 

Where  the  shadows  at  dusk  met  to  dance  *'  Money  Musk  ' 
To  the  whippoorwill's  chorus,  dwelt  Jennie  McCourt. 

All  'round  it  the  corn  raised  its  spears  to  the  morn, 

In  spite  o'  the  vandals  in  gray  and  in  blue; 
For  the  hollyhocks  tall  by  the  low  garden  wall 

Had  witnessed  two  armies  pass  by  in  review. 

Through  that  long  summer  day  she  could  hear  far  away 
The  low,  thunderous  orowl  of  the  bie  Parrott  ofuns, 

Till  the  echoes  they  woke  rolled  away  in  the  smoke 
And  came  brokenly  back  in  the  snarl  o'  the  drums. 

In  the  fast-waning  light,  when  't  was  nearing  the  night, 
Blue-eyed  Jennie  crept  out  to  the  low  cottage  gate, 

When  a  squadron  in  gray  came  swift  riding  that  way. 
And  then  halted  to  camp  there  because  it  was  late. 

Now,  among  them  rode  one  that  was  dear  as  the  sun 

To  the  heart  o'  Miss  Jennie  —  a  prisoner,  too. 
He  'd  one  arm  in  a  sling,  like  a  bird's  broken  wing, 

An'  a  gilt  eagle  gleamed  on  his  shoulder  o'  blue. 

Then  the  girl  she  turned  white  as  a  ghost  in  the  light. 
Though  she  spoke  not  a  word  to  the  prisoner  there; 

But  the  Lord,  who  heeds  all  to  the  sparrows  that  fall. 

Must  have  sent  down  an  angel  and  answered  her  prayer. 

When  the  camp-fire's  red  light  burned  a  hole  in  the  night, 
She  crept  out  to  the  place  where  the  wounded  man  lay, 

'Neath  a  huge  spreading  oak,  half  concealed  by  a  cloak. 
And  she  bound  up  his  wounds  in  a  woman's  deft  way. 

"Mighty  fond  o'  the  Yanks,"  said  the  Johnnies.  "What  thanks 
Does  yer  ever  expect  that  you'll  get  from  them  spies  ?" 


74  Talcs  of  the  TiLvf. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  men,"  proudly  answered  she  them, 
And  I  noticed  a  dangerous  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

Then  she  whispered  a  word  that  the  prisoner  heard, 
And  she  threw  him  a  kiss  as  she  vanished  away. 

Not  a  Johnnie  could  see,  though  it  looked  plain  to  me 
There  'd  be  fun  in  that  camp  'fore  the  dawn  o'  the  day. 

Then  the  moon  came  and  went  like  a  crescent  that 's  bent 
By  some  venturesome  angel  to  sail  through  the  skies, 

While  the  stars,  one  by  one,  half  in  fear,  half  in  fun, 

Peeped  at  earth  through  the  smoke  with  their  millions  of  eyes. 

The  lone  guard  at  his  post,  to  and  fro,  like  a  ghost, 
Paced  out  to  the  roadway,  then  back  to  the  lane, 

Where  he  paused  to  look  down  on  the  lights  o'  the  town, 
Gave  a  shift  to  his  carbine,  and  paced  back  again. 

With  a  shadowy  glide  to  the  prisoner's  side, 

All  unseen  by  the  sentry,  crept  Jennie  McCourt. 

"  I  've  a  horse  for  you,  dear,  in  the  thicket  quite  near," 

She  low  whispered.     "  Come,  mount  her,  and  ride  for  the  fort.' 

Not  a  twig  did  they  break,  not  a  bird  did  they  wake. 
As  together  they  crept  to  the  place  where  it  stood; 

Then  she  kissed  him  good-night,  and  with  eyes  all  alight 
Watched  him  ride  out  alone  to  the  edge  o'  the  wood. 

'T  was  that  thoroughbred  Nell  that  he  mounted,  and  —  well, 
'T  was  the  flash  of  a  carbine,  an  answering  cheer. 

Told  the  Johnnies  that  night  o'  their  prisoner's  flight, 
While  a  woman  prayed  God  for  his  safety  in  fear. 

Down  the  old  turnpike  road,  with  her  crippled  blue  load. 

The  wild  thoroughbred  dashed  with  the  speed  o'  the  wind  — 

Never  stopping  for  breath,  for  the  shadow  o'  death 
Followed  swiftly  on  cavalry  chargers  behind. 


"  Down  the  old  turnpike  road,  with  her  crippled  blue  load 

The  wild  thorojighbred  dashed  with  the  speed  of  the  wind. " 


That    Thoroughbred  Nell.  77 

The  gray  dust,  like  a  veil,  from  her  mane  to  her  tail 

Wrapped  her  close  in  its  folds,  and  half  hid  her  from  sight, 

While  the  white  flecks  o'  foam  ever  backwards  were  blown 
As  she  sped,  like  a  phantom,  straight  on  through  the  night. 

The  farm  watch-dogs  would  bark  as  we  passed  in  the  dark, 
While  the  farmer's  wife  muttered,  "There  's  foxes  about," 

For  how  little  she  knew  that  a  soldier  in  blue 
Was  then  riding  a  race  for  his  life  on  that  route. 

Once  a  sentry  in  gray  heard  us  coming  his  way. 

"  Halt !   Who  goes  there  ?  "  he  shouted.     We  dashed  o'er  the 
bridge; 
Ere  a  musket  could  flash,  with  another  wild  dash 

We  had  vanished  from  sight  o'er  the  top  o'  the  ridge. 

So  all  through  the  long  night  we  kept  up  our  wild  flight. 
And  the  dawn  o'  the  day  found  us  safe  at  the  fort. 

I  could  never  half  tell  all  my  thanks  to  Brown  Nell; 

And  I  've  never  ceased  thanking  sweet  Jennie  McCourt. 

What  's  become  o'  the  mare  ?  Well,  she  's  dead,  I  declare. 
But  that  brown  colt  down  yonder  is  one  of  her  sons. 

Any  good?     Why,  great  Scott  !   Not  a  horse  in  the  lot 
Can  beat  him  a-running.      He  goes  like  great  guns. 

Oh,  the  girl  ?      On  my  life,  I  forgot.      She  's  my  wife. 
Though  I  never  knew  just  why  she  cottoned  to  me. 

We  Ve  a  family  —  four  growing  up  'round  the  door; 

That's  Miss  Jennie,  the  second,  you 've  now  on  your  knee. 


78  Talcs  of  the  TiLvf. 

THE  HERO   OF  THE  STABLES. 

He  was  only  a  stable  lad,  was  Jim,  yet  in  his  rugcred  breast 
There  beat  a  heart  as  tender  and  true  as  beats  'neath  a  velvet 

vest. 
He  couldn't  repeat,  I  '11  stake  my  life,  one  o'  the  commandments 

ten, 
But  he  'd  more  religion  'neath  his  coat  than  you  '11  find  in  the  most 

o'  men. 

Born  with   a   knowledge  o'  right  and  wrong   that  most  o'  men 

acquire 
For  the  simple  reason  they  're  afraid  o'  a  brimstone  lake  o'  fire, 
He  loved  the  children  that  played  about  as  well  as  a  miser  gold, 
Watched  them  as  a  shepherd  does  his  sheep  when  the  darkness 

veils  the  fold. 

Among  the  horses   Jim  had  in  charge  was  a  stallion,   big  and 

black. 
As  vicious  a  brute  as    ever  set    hoof,  iron-shod,   on  a  trotting- 

track. 
He  had  killed  three  men  already  there,  an'  nobody  now  but  Jim 
Dared  enter  the  stall  where  he  stood  alone  —  the  hoss  seemed 

fond  o'  him. 

He  rushed  at  strangers,  open-mouthed,  when  they  ventured  to 

near  his   stall; 
The  signs  o'  his  temper  showed  in  dents  kicked  deep  in  the  hard 

wood  wall. 
They  'd    christened    him    Satan.      Well,    indeed,    he   fitted  that 

dev'lish  name, 
Though  in  looks  he  were  a  beauty  from  his  heels  to  his  ebon 

mane. 

In  the  spring  a  little  gal  come  out  along  wi'  a  chap  from  town 
To   see   the   horses.      She'd  eyes  of  blue  an'  hair   of  a  golden 
brown; 


The  Hero  of  the  Stables. 


79 


Though  but  six  years  old,  she  lov^cd  a  horse  as  well  as  a  woman 

can, 
An'  a  woman  loves  a  hoss,  sometimes,  far  more  than  she  does  a 

man. 

She'd  pet  them  all  with  her  dainty  hands  an'   prattle  in  childish 

glee, 
'Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  sonors  o'  the  birds  an'  streamlets  laug-hin' 

free. 


"  /«  the  dark  o'  SataiVs  stall?'' 

Then  I  got  to  talkin'  along  wi'  the  chap  o'  old-time  racin'  ways, 
O'  politics  an'  a  lot  o'  things  as  a  feller  will  nowadays. 

'T  was  all  of  a  sudden  we  missed  the  gal.  an',  glancin'  down  the 

wall, 
I  caught  the  sheen  o'  her  gold-brown  hair  in  the  dark  o'  Satan's 

stall. 
My  feet  seemed  glued  to  the  old  barn   floor,  an'  my  heart   stood 

still  in  fright. 
As  I  caught  the  flash   o'  that  demon's   eyes,  like  torches  burnin' 

bright. 


8o  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

I  thought  o'  the  baby  I  had  left  in  my  far-off  mountain  home, 
And  tried  to  pray  for  the  dainty  gal  that  stood  in  that  stall  alone. 
Then  I  saw  that  stable  boy,  that  Jim,  dash  in  through  the  open 

door 
O'  Satan's  stall,  an'  the  baby  lay  unharmed  on  the  old  barn  floor. 

Strong  man  as  I  am,  I  fainted  then.      When  back  into  life  I  came 
Poor  Jim  lay  there  on  the  hay,  a  corpse,   by  that  big  black  devil 

slain  ! 
He  'd  given  his  life  for  that  little  gal's.     A  hero's  act,  you  say  ? 
Aye,  one  that  '11  give   him  a  crown,  I  guess,  when  it  comes   to 

judgment  day. 

How  did  it  happen  ?  God  only  knows.    It  was  only  Him  could  see; 
But  I  hope  that  never  again  on  earth  will  terror  come  to  me 
Such  as  I  felt  when  I  saw  that  gal  alone  in  that  darkened  stall 
With  the  big  black hoss,  while  Death's  dark  wings  cast  shadows 
over  all. 

He  was  only  a  stable  boy,  was  Jim,  yet  in  his  rugged  breast 
There  beat  a  heart  as  tender  an'  true  as  beats  'neath  a  velvet  vest. 
He  couldn't  repeat,  I  '11  stake  my  life,  one  o'  the  commandments 

ten, 
Yet  I  reckon  he  '11  fare  on  judgment  day  better  than  most  o'  men. 


HOW  ROY  WILKES  DOWNED  THE  GANG. 

I  say,  have  you  forgotten,  lads,  the  race  at  Fleetwood  Park, 
When  Davies  captured  all  the  cash  between  daylight  an'  dark, 
While    apples,   Chinese-lantern-like,   hung   shining  'mongst  the 

leaves, 
An'  shocks  o'  corn  like  pickets  stood  among  the  fallen  sheaves  ? 
The  day  that  Roy  Wilkes  downed  the  gang  ?     Aye,  that 's  the  day 

I  mean. 
Its  memory  still  pursues  me  like  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 


Holo  Roy   Wilkes  Downed  the  Gang.  8i. 

Budd  Doble  had  Ed  Annan  there,  an'  I  remember  well 
That  Herring-ton  was  pilotin'  the  roan  mare  Ulster  Belle. 
The  little  black  mare  Allen  Maid  was  driven  then  by  Trout, 
While  Turner,  with  BalsoraWilkes,  thought  he  could  beat  Roy  out. 
Peeks  o'er  El  Monarch  held  the  reins.      I  thought  that  he  'd  gone 

daft, 
When  I  saw  Davies  driving  Roy,  an'  jest  sat  down  an'  laughed. 

He  surely  had  more  cheek  that  day  than  any  man  I  'd  seen, 
To  get  out  with  a  gang  like  that,  an'  him  so  pumpkin  green; 
For  there  's  a  heap  in  driving,  lads,  as  most  o'  folks  allow; 
There  's  lots  o'  drivers  all  the  time,  an'  but  one  Doble  now. 
I  changed  my  mind  some  afterwards  when  loud  the  cheerinor  rangr 
That  greeted  Roy,  the  stallion  king,  that  day  he  downed  the  gang. 

When  warming  up  before  the  race,  they  made  a  pretty  sight. 
The  tiny  Allen  Maid  went  by,  a  shadow  o'  the  night; 
The  red  roan  coat  o'  Ulster  Belle  like  burnished  copper  shone; 
El  ^Monarch  seemed  o'  silver  steel  when  he  shot  by  alone; 
Balsora  Wilkes  ungainly  looked,  but  when  Roy  Wilkes  came  down 
The  track,  a  perfect  storm  o'  cheers  went  up  to  greet  the  brown. 

Who  seemed  a  picture  taken  out  from  some  old  master's  frame. 
Folks  thought  Pegasus  had  come  back  to  visit  earth  again. 
His  eyes  flashed  fire;   he  held  his  head  aloft  in  kingly  pride; 
He  seemed  to  spurn  the  very  earth  nor  touch  it  in  his  stride. 
He  glanced  about  him  right  an'  left,  an'  somehow  seemed  to  say, 
"I  '11  prove  that  I  am  king,  indeed,  upon  this  track  to-day." 

The  betting  men  were  out  in  force  that  day  at  Fleetwood  Park; 
'T  was  fifty  Roy  an'  fifty  field.      I  backed  him  for  a  lark. 
I  knew  the  horse  was  mighty  fast — -how  fast  I  didn't  know. 
But  thought  when  Davies  held  the  reins  he  had  but  little  show. 
The  gang  would  down  him  if  they  could,  I  knew  as  sure  as  fate, 
An'  so  before  I  wagered  much  I  thought  it  best  to  wait. 


82  Talcs  of  the  Tiirf. 

For  Fortune,  fickle  jade  at  best,  is  full  o'  smiles  and  tears; 
That  plungers  always  come  to  g-rief  's  the  history  o'  the  years. 
The  o-randest-lookinof  horse  of  all,  that  's  certain  sure  to  win, 
May  break  down  when  he  's  way  ahead  an'  be  the  last  horse  in. 
Such  thoughts  as  these  passed  through  my  mind;   I  said  I  'd  wait 

awhile, 
llien  wager  more  if  Fortune  seemed  inclined  that  day  to  smile. 

The  first  heat  was  an  easy  thing  for  Roy,  it  seemed  to  me. 

He  d  Allen  Maid  an'  Ulster  Belle  to  keep  him  company. 

He  bade  them  good-by  at  the  half,  where  watches  marked  "one- 
four," 

Reluctant-like,  as  lovers  leave  their  lassies  at  the  door 

When  clocks  chime  out  the  wee  sma'  hours,  an'  stars  begin  to 
wane, 

As  though,  to  use  an  old  song's  words,  the  parting  gave  him  pain. 

Roy  Wilkes  now  sold  for  fifty,  while  the  field  brought  twenty- 
nine, 

But  Fortune,  who  had  smiled  before,  put  on  a  frown  this  time; 

For  Allen  Maid  cut  in  an'  took  the  pole  right  at  the  word 

An'  flitted  round  the  lower  turn  as  swiftly  as  a  bird. 

The  stallion  jumped  into  the  air  —  he  made  a  tangled  break 

That  sent  him  ten  lengths  to  the  rear  —  my  heart  began  to  ache. 

The  little  black  mare,  pacing  fast,  climbed  swiftly  up  the  hill. 

She  beat  Ed  Annan  home  a  length.  The  crowd  was  hushed  an' 
still. 

Don't  ask  me  where  Roy  Wilkes  came  in.     I  didn't  care  to  know. 

I  thought  it  was  a  hopeless  task  for  him  to  win,  an'  so 

I  went  an'  hedged  my  money  out  by  betting  on  the  field. 

I  didn't  know  the  heart  o'  oak  that  seal-brown  coat  concealed; 

So,   while  the   field   brought  twenty-five  'gainst  twenty-two   for 

Roy, 
I  placed  three  hundred  in  the  box  an'  hugged  myself  for  joy. 


Hozv  Roy   Wilkes  Do7vucd  the  Gang.  83 

Just  'fore  they  started  for  this  heat  I  g-Ianced  up  at  the  stand 
An'  saw  a  red  bandana  waved  in  some  tall  fellow's  hand; 
Then,  turninor  quick,  saw  Davies  nod  his  head,  an'  like  a  flash 
The  thought  came  to  me:  Roy  will  win;  they've  got  on  all  their 

cash. 
I  tried  to  hedge  my  money  out,  but  didn't  have  a  chance, 
For  every  time  they  came  to  score  that  stallion  led  the  dance. 

The  Maid,  the  Belle   an'  Roy  all    swung  round  the   first  turn  in 

line; 
A  blanket  would  have  covered  all  the  three  at  any  time. 
Then,  as  the  stallion  forged  ahead,  he  once  more  left  his  feet, 
An'  Allen  Maid  shot  to  the  front —  I  thought  she  'd  win  the  heat. 
But  no  !  The  horse  soon  causfht  ao-ain  —  he  rallied  with  a  will 
An'  set  sail  for  the  leaders    who  were  climbing  up  the  hill. 

The   sulky-wheels  seemed  flashing  rims  —  the  spokes  were  lost 

to  sight; 
He  danced  along-  as  shadows  dance  across  the  face  o'  nicjht. 
He  soon  passed  all   but  Allen   Maid.     Trout   thought  he  had  it 

won. 
When  suddenly  a  flying  shape  dashed  by  him  in  the  sun 
That  gilded  o'er  the  Point  o'  Rocks,  an'  quicker  than  a  flash 
Those  drivers  realized  that  Roy  'd  a  mortgage  on  the  cash. 

'T  was   all   in   vain.      I^alsora    Wilkes   was  hurried   through  the 

straight 
To  catch  that  stallion  from  the   West,   who  'd  struck  at  last  his 

gait. 
You  've  seen  an  engine  flash  along  the  narrow  rails  o'  steel. 
While  all  the  mile-posts,  painted  white,  behind  it  dance  a  reel; 
You  've  seen  a  whirlwind  sweep  across  a  meadow,  daisy-grown  — 
So  swept  Roy  Wilkes  along  the  track,  an'  finished  all  alone. 

An'  now  the  odds  were  three  to  one  on  Roy,  the  takers  few. 
Old  General  Turner  an'  the  gang  were  feeling  mighty  blue: 


84  Talcs  of  the  Titrf. 

They  'd  all  their  money  in  the  box,  and  couldn't  get  it  out; 
They  knew  that  Roy  could  beat  them  then  the  whole  length  o" 

the  route. 
When  scoring  up  he  seemed  to  say,  as  plain  as  plain  could  be, 
'^Although  I  know  I'm  handicapped  to-day,  you  can't  beat  me." 

The  race  was  all  but  over  then.      Roy  went  away  so  fast, 

The  instant  they   received  the  word,   that,   Avhen  the  half  was 

passed, 
He  led  his  field  an  open  length,  an'  going  up  the  hill 
He  seemed,  with  every  single  stride,  to  draw  off  further  still. 
He  then  jogged  home  just  as  he  pleased,  while  loud  the  cheering 

rang, 
For,  single-handed  and  alone,  Roy  Wilkes  had  downed  the  gang. 

How  fast  were  those  four  heats  ?  you  ask.    The  fastest  ever  made 
At  Fleetwood  by  a  pacing  horse;   an'  yet  he  only  played 
With  that  wdiole  field,  an'  beat  the  gang  in  such  an  easy  way, 
It  seemed  he  might  have  distanced  all  who  met  him  there  that 

day. 
I  '11  o-amble  now  a  horse  that  meets  an'  beats  him  anywhere 
Can  eive  Maud  S.  a  rattlinor  race  —  an'  she  's  no  common  mare. 


MISS  WOODFORD. 

Qteen  ok  the  Ture. 

Kentucky-born,  Kentucky-bred, 

A  beauty  from  her  heels  to  head, 

I  see  her  in  my  dreams  again. 

The  daughter  of  old  Fancy  Jane 

And  Billet,  as  she  stood  that  night, 

A  picture  in  the  waning  light. 

Nor  dreamed  a  queen  she  crowned  should  be. 

With  laurels,  by  the  sounding  sea. 


Miss  Woodford. 

I  see  her  led  into  the  ring, 

Fit  dauofhter  of  the  harem's  kino-. 

With  quiv'ring-  nerves  and  flashing  eyes 

Slie  looks  around  in  calm  surprise. 

I  hear  the  auctioneer  explain 

Her  breeding:   "  Billet- Fancy  Jane." 


85 


"  Tlie  daughter  of  old  Fancy  Jane  and  Billet.'''' 

The  bidding  lags  —  the  filly  's  sold, 
Bought  by  the  Dwyers'  yellow  gold. 

The  years  drift  by,  and  once  again, 

With  throbbing  heart  and  reeling  brain, 

I  see  a  great  race  run  and  won 

At  Monmouth  'neath  a  burning  sun. 

I  see  them  gather  at  the  post; 

I  see  that  filly  or  her  ghost. 


S6  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

"They  're  off,"  the  caller  loudly  cries  — 
I  follow  them  with  straining  eyes. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  rattling-  hoofs 
Like  rain-drops  beating  on  the  roofs, 
And  catch  the  flash  of  colors   bright, 
Like  comets  hurled  across  the  night; 
I  hear  again  through  all  the  years 
The  music  of  the  deafening  cheers 
That  rise  and  fall  and  die  away 
As  does  the  tide  on  Fundy's  Bay. 

The  hurrying  hoofs  draw  nearer  yet. 
The  jockeys'  teeth  are  firmly  set; 
The  racers,  straining  every  nerve, 
Like  shadows  sweep  around  the  curve. 
The  colors,  shifting  as  they  run, 
Look  like  a  rainbow  in  the  sun. 
And  cracking  whips  make  music  dear^ 
With  jingling  spurs,  to  turfman's  ear. 

The  flying  feet  come  nearer  still; 
'T  is  like  the  clatter  of  a  mill. 
That  changes  to  a  rolling  drum. 
As  down  the  stretch  the  racers  come. 
I  hear  men  shout  above  the  din: 
"  Come  on,  the  black  !  "     "  The  gray  will  win  !  " 
The  dust  is  flying  like  a  cloud  — 
The  horses  hidden  in  a  shroud. 

Look  quick  !   the  dust  is  backward  blown; 
They  're  just  a  furlong  now  from  home. 
A  brown  mare  leads  the  broken  ranks; 
A  chestnut  hangs  upon  her  flanks. 
The  frenzied  racers  rush  and  reel 
Beneath  the  sting  of  whips  and  steel. 


A  Colored  Tip.  87 

Now  ride,  McLaughlin!   ride  for  life  — 
So  won  young'  Lochinvar  a  wife. 

The  brown  comes  on  with  giant  strides; 
She  feels  the  master  hand  that  guides. 
Thoueh  slender  les::s  begin  to  tire, 
She  struo-o-les  on  to  reach  the  wire. 
The  chestnut  falters  and  falls  back; 
The  brown  comes  on  and  takes  the  track. 
"Miss  Woodford  wins  !  '     I  hear  the  cheer, 
And  crown  her  queen  of  all  the  year. 

Beyond  the  mountains,  where  unrolled 
The  wheat-fields  lie  in  sheets  of  gold. 
When  ripened  by  the  summer  sun, 
And  silver  streamlets  laughing  run, 
Miss  Woodford  wanders.      By  her  side 
A  hlly  plays  —  the  Haggin  pride  — 
To  prove  in  after  days,  I  ween, 
The  worthy  daughter  of  a  queen. 


A  COLORED  TIP. 

(DixiANA,  February,  1SS6.) 

I  's  an  ole  Kaintucky  niggah,  an'  fo'  nigh  on  fifty  yeah 

I  's  been  workin'  fo'  de  Majah  on  de  ole  plantation  heah, 

An'  I  's  watched  de  colts  an'  fillies  as  dey  'd  kick  aroun'  an'  run, 

When  de  blue  grass  hid  deir  fetlocks  whar  it  rippled  in  de  sun. 

I  kin  'member  when  de  Majah  was  a  younga'  man  dan  now, 
Foah  dem  debbles  Care  an'  Trebble  cut  deir  furrows  in  his  brow; 
When  he  put  above  de  gate-way,  in  big  lettahs  dat  war  cl'ar:  " 
"  Dar's  no  peddlers  an'  no  nuffin'  but  a  race-hoss  wanted  hyar." 


88  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

Da  's  been  many  a  good  race-hoss  dat  war  raised  upon  dis  farm. 
Hyar  dat  streak  ob  lightnin',  Punster,  an'  de  great   Ban  Fox  war 

born. 
Hyar  de  King  Bans  lib  in  clober  till  we  sen'  dem  off  to  sell, 
An'  dey  dons  de  silks  an'  satins  fo'  to  mak'  de  people  yell. 

Ober  yondah  Stan's  ole  Himyah,  an'  I  'members  well  de  day 
Dat  dat  ole  boss  win  de  Merchants',  an"  I 's  heerd  ole  Majah  say 
Dat  afore  he  done  went  broke  down   he  war  jes'  about  de  boss. 
Like  ole  Freelan'  am  in  dese  days,  an'  no  common  kin'  ob  boss. 

See  dat  filly  standing  yondah  an'  a-nibblin'  at  her  hay; 
Bettah  keep  youh  eye  upon  her  if  she  starts  on  Derby  Day. 
Bettah  watch  Sis  Himyah,  massa,  when  she  starts  for  any  race; 
Bettah  play  her  sure  an'  sartin  —  play  her  straight  and  play  her 
place. 

Kin  she  beat  Ban  Fox  ?     No,  massa,  not  if  dat  King  Ban  am  right. 
He  kin  beat  the  whole  caboodle  in  dat  race  cl'ar  out  ob  sight. 
Ole  Jack  Chinn,  afore  he  sold  him,  tole  me  time  an'  time  agin 
Dat  dat  colt,  ef  rightly  ridden,  beat  de  debbil,  suah  as  sin. 

Dar,  I  's  done  bin  gone  an'  done  it.     Majah  says  I  talk  too  much. 
Beats  ole  Nick  my  tongue  gets  runnin'  when  I  talks  ob  colts  an' 

such. 
He  gets  mad  an'  scolds  dis  niggah  when  I  hasn't  done  jes  right; 
Den  he  ban's  me  out  a  dollah,  'foah  de  sun  's  done  gone  at  night. 

Freedom  ?  What  I  want  of  freedom  when  I  's  happy  whar  I  am, 
Libbin'  like  a  bee  in  clober  —  workin',  too,  fo'  such  a  man? 
You  kin  tak'  youh  'Mancipation  Proclamation  to  de  ryar  — 
"  Dar's  no  peddlers  an'  no  nuffin  but  a  race-hoss  wanted  hyar." 


Forbidden  F?-7u'L  89 

FORBIDDEN  FRUIT; 

Or,    How  Flying  Cloud  was  Saved. 
I. 

Jimmy,  Bill  has  passed  his   checks  in,  and  has  gone  across  the 

range 
To  a  place  thar  ain't  no  hosses,  to  a  country  that  is  strange; 
But  he  left  good  deeds  behind  him.    Could  a  poet  these  discern  — 
Put  them  down  in  homely  phrases  —  then  his  fellow-men  might 

learn 
That  there  's  men  with  hearts  as  honest  in  the  shadow  of  a  stall 
As  there  is  around  the  churches  where  the  steeples'  shadows  fall. 

II. 

Bill  was  nothing  but  a  rubber;   bin  with  hosses  all  his  life; 
Liked  the  sense  o'  bein'  lonely;  hadn't  either  child  or  wife; 
Used  to  whisper  to  the  hosses  like  he  thought  they  'd  understand 
Everything  he  tried   to  tell  them,   while  with   hard    yet   gentle 

hand 
He  would  braid  their  manes  with  ribbons  and  would  smooth  their 

glossy  coats; 
See  that  each  one  had  its  water,  see  that  each  one  had  its  oats. 

III. 

In  the  stable  where  Bill  labored  was  the  trotter  Flying  Cloud; 
He  'd  a  record  in  the  twenties,  though  the  most  o'  folks  allowed 
He  could  trot  a  good  deal  faster  if  he  had  to  trot  to  win. 
Some  said  he  could  beat  the  devil,  though  that  saying  were  a  sin. 
He  were  Bill's  partic'lar  fancy,  just  the  apple  o'  his  eye. 
An'  he  watched  him  mighty  closely  when  he  saw  a  stranger  nigh. 

IV. 

'T  was  in  eighty,  down  in  Boston;  Flying  Cloud  was  entered  there 
In  the  free-for-all  for  stallions,  an'  I  often  heard  Bill  swear 


90  Talcs  of  the  Tzirf. 

There  was  nary  hoss  to  beat  him,  not  one  as  could  make  him  trot. 
Even  though  some  mighty  good  ones  had  been  entered  in  the 

lot. 
I  had  seen  him  up  the  country  win  in  time  I  thought  was  slow, 
But  I  never  took  his  measure;   didn't  know  how  fast  he'd  go. 

V. 

'Twas  the  night  before  the  big  race,  when  two  strangers  went  to 

Bill, 
Offered  him  ten  thousand  dollars  if  he'd  work  the  stallion  ill  — 
Give  him  just  a  little  somethin'  that  they  'd  furnish  there  an'  then. 
"  No,"  said   Bill,  "  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  you'd  make  it  ten  times 

ten." 
An'  that   night   he   moved   his   blankets   to   the  stallion's  stable, 

where 
He  could  watch  the  hoss  an'  find  out  if  they  meant  him  mischief 

there. 

VI. 

It  was  shortly  after  midnight.     Bill  was  lost  in  other  scenes. 
Ghosts  of  trotters  long  departed  chased  each  other  through  his 

dreams. 
Smashing  records  all  to  flinders;  for  it's  strange  the  time  they 

keep 
When  they  send  along  their  horses  in  the  magic  land  of  sleep. 
Bill  was  wakened  by  the  creakin'  of  a  window  in  the  wall. 
While  a  little  streak  o'  moonlight  darted  crosswise  o'  the  stall. 

VII. 

Then  he  lay  and  watched  the  window  till  he  saw  a  face  appear 
At  the  opening,  when  his  pistol  rang  out  loud  an'  sharp  an'  clear; 
An'  he  heard  a  curse  low  muttered  an'  the  noise  o'  flyin'  feet 
That  the  echoes  seemed  to  waken  all  along  the  moonlit  street. 
Blades  o'  grass  beneath  the  window  showed  some  splashes  here 

an'  there 
That  were  crimson  in  their  color,  but  nobody  seemed  to  care. 


"■  J'lyiUi;  Cloud  don't  get  no  apple  'foi-e  this  race,  you  understand!  " 


Forbidden  Fruit.  93 

VIII. 

The  next  morning,  some  time  after  Bill  had  rubbed  the  stallion 

down, 
There  come  looking  through  the  stables  quite  a  party  from  the 

town, 
An'  among  them  was  a  woman  just  as  pretty  as  a  peach 
Such  as  school  boys  always  long  for  when  they  're  hangin'  out  o' 

reach. 
She  just  plied  old  Bill  with  questions,  that  he  answered  mighty 

cross; 
From  her  pockets  took  an  apple  that  she  offered  to  the  hoss. 


IX. 

But  Bill  quickly  snatched  the  pippin   from  the  dainty  creature's 

hand  — 
"  Flying  Cloud  don't  get  no  apple  'fore  this  race,  you  under- 
stand !  " 
Was  his  muttered  exclamation;  an'  he  added,  speaking  low: 
"Apples  just  raised  hell  with  Adam  once  in  Eden  long  ago." 
Flushed  the  woman  to  her  temples  as  she  quickly  turned  away, 
While  beneath  her  jetty  lashes  lightning  seemed  to  flash  and 
play. 

X. 

Flying  Cloud  that  day  in  Boston  won  a  race  you  should  have 

seen; 
Beat  Don  Juan  and  fourteen  others  —  trotted  there  in  two-thirteen. 
While  his  party  made  a  killing.     They  had  every  ticket  sold 
On  the  stallion  that  Dame  Rumor  made  the  fastest  ever  foaled; 
But  the  proudest  man  around  there  was  old  Bill,  who  led  him 

back. 
Crowned  the  king  of  trotting  stallions  from  his  triumph  on  the 

track. 


94 


Tales  of  the  Tiirf. 


XL 


That  same  nig-ht.  as  we  sat  smoking  by  the  open  stable  door, 
Telling  tales  of  old-time  races  like  we  'd  often  done  before, 
Bill  remarked,  "  Guess  I  was  foolish  'bout  that  apple,  Tom,  to-day. 
Angels  never  pizen  bosses,  an'  I  reckon  't  aint  their  way, 
But  you  see,  lad.  I  were  narvous    bout  the  boss,  an'  anyhow, 
Men  can't  be  too  mighty  careful  in  this  business,  you  '11  allow. 

XII. 

"  I  were  mighty  fond  o'  apples  when  a  lad,  I  were  myself, 
An'  that  pippin  looks  so  temptin',  as  it  lays  thar  on  the  shelf. 
That  I  reckon  I  shall  eat  it  just  afore  I  goes  to  bed. 
Want  a  piece  ?  "     I  don't  eat  apples,  so  I  only  shook  my  head. 
Then  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  hill-tops,  while  the  shadows  shorter 

grew. 
An'  I  said  "  Good-night "  an'  left  him,  for  I  'd  still  some  work  to  do. 

XIII. 

Jimmy,  Bill  did  eat  that  apple.  When  we  called  him  at  the  dawn, 
He  were  sleepin',  but  his  spirit  somehow  'd  taken  wings  an'  gone. 
Heart  disease,  the  doctors  called  it,  for  them  doctors  never  knew 
O'  this  tale  about  the  pippin  that  I  "m  spinning  here  to  }'ou. 
But  it  Bill  could  only  spoken;  if  those  lips,  so  still  an'  mute, 
Could  have  moved,  he'd  made  the  verdict:  "  Cause  o'  death  — 
forbidden  fruit.'' 


Why  the  Captain  Quit  Racing.  95 

WHY  THE  CAPTAIN   QUIT  RACING. 

Ax  Old  Turkman's   Story. 

Will  I  join  you  ?     What  ?     In  a  glass  o'  wine  ? 
No,  none  o'  your  new  fancy  drinks  in  mine  ! 
Rye  whisky  an'  sugar's  the  drink  for  me, 
But  wine  an'  my  stomach  never  '11  agree, 
An'  I  'm  gettin'  too  old  to  change  now'days, 
For  old  dogs,  you  know,  hate  to  learn  new  ways. 
Wine  may  do  now  for  young  men  o'  your  wealth, 
But  I  '11  stick  to  my  whisky.      Here  's  your  health  ! 

You  were  talkin'  hoss  when  I  wandered  in  — 
About  Proctor  Knott  an'  the  bay  Galen — 
An  wonderin'  which  was  the  best  to  play, 
The  big  chestnut  colt  or  the  gallant  bay. 
Well,  you  might  stand  right  there  an'  argufy 
As  to  which  was  best  till  the  day  you  die, 
An'  the  chances  are  you  wouldn't  agree 
Any  more  than  you  does  about  wine  with  me. 

For  there  's  nothin'  sure  in  the  racin'  line, 
An'  racin'  bosses  is  losin'  good  time 
Unless  you  can  race  for  the  sport  alone, 
An'  back  only  bosses  you  call  your  own. 
Then  you  're  often  wrong,  as  I  ought  to  know. 
What  —  tell  you  the  story  ?   Oh,  pshaw,  boys,  no! 
Well,  sit  down  with  me  by  this  blazin'  fire. 
And  for  once  I  '11  give  you  your  hearts'  desire  : 

It  was  down  in  old  Kentucky,  many,  many  years  ago. 

Where  the  sweet  magnolias  blossom  in  the  spring-time  white  as 

snow; 
Where  the  blue  grass  pastures  stretch  away  beneath  the  old  oak 

trees, 
And  roses,  blushing,  bend  their  heads  beneath  the  amorous  breeze. 


96  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

I  'd  sixteen  bosses  in  my  string;   the  likeliest  one  o'  all, 

A  big  bay  mare  by  Boston,  known  as  Nancy  Afterall. 

I  'd  been  winnin'  lots  o'  races,  an'  was  flyin'  sort  o'  high  — 

Owned  the  earth,  an'  was  just  tryin'  for  a  mortgage  on  the  sky, 

Nancy  Afterall  was  entered  in  an  all-aged  sweepstakes  race. 
An'  I  thoueht  that  she  could  win  it,  but  was  sure  she'd  get  the 

place: 
So  I  put  Dan  Rogers  on  her  with  instructions:    "  Take  the  track 
When  the  flag  falls,  an'  just  keep  it,  never  turnin'  to  look  back." 

There  were  just  eleven  bosses  that  stood  grouped  about  the  post- 
Rogers'  face  was  white  as  ashes,  an'  he  looked  more  like  a  ghost 
Than  a  livin'  human  being.      Suddenly  the  flag  went  down. 
An'  the  race  began  in  earnest;   but  the  leader  was  Jack  Brown. 

'T  was  in  vain  I  looked  for  Nancy  an'  my  colors  blue  and  white.. 
They  had  vanished  as  completely  as  a  fallin'  star  at  night. 
An'  I  never  knew  what  happened  till  the  race  was  run  and  won.. 
Then  I  tumbled  to  the  racket,  an'  I  knew  that  I  'd  been  done. 

I  had  backed  the  mare  for  thousands,  both  to  win  an'  for  a  place,. 
An'  had  Rogers  rode  to  orders  I  'd  have  never  lost  the  race. 
But  he  never  tried  to  win  it,  and  the  starter.  Parson  Bill, 
Told  me  she  was  left  a-standin'  when  the  flag  fell,  standin'  still.. 

I  was  mad,  an'  you  can  gamble  that  I  ripped  around  and  swore;. 
But  that  didn't  save  my  money,  an'  I  vowed  I  'd  race  no  more. 
So  I  went  an'  sold  my  bosses  —  sacrificed  'em  for  a  song. 
Now  I  never  back  a  race-boss  though  I  do  not  think  it  wrong. 

Them  that  likes  can  bet  on  races;  as  for  me,  I  've  jumped  the  game.. 
Rather  buck  against  the  tiger,  though  I  say  it  to  my  shame. 
If  the  jockeys  all  were  honest,  an'  the  racin'  always  square, 
There 'd  be  more  men  ownin'  bosses;  there  'd  be  fewer  men  that 
swear. 


Burton' s  Prairie  Belle. 


97 


WH' 


"^'^-^A/-^f^^ 


BURTON'S 
PRAIRIE  BELLE; 

Or,  How  the  Cup  was  Run  and  Won. 


Have  you  ever  read  the  story, 

or  heard  anybody  tell  ■  . 

Of  how  once  the  cup  was  run  and  won  by  Burton's  Prairie  Belle? 
A  little  scrawny  chestnut  mare,  with  a  golden  tail  and  mane, 
That,  whene'er  she  cut  the  sunshine  through,  seemed  bannerets 

o'  flame. 
Oh,  a  gamer  race  was  never  run —  I  'm  willing  now  to  swear 
That  there  never  was  so  game  a  hoss  nor  half  so  game  a  mare. 

It  was  on  a  Southern  race-track  an'  nigh  twenty  years  ago; 
It  was  drawin'  close  on  to  winter,  an'  the  air  was  full  o'  snow. 
I  had  a  hoss  called  Eagle,  a  big,  powerful-looking  gray, 
That  was  raised  in  old  Kaintucky,  an'  was  bred  to  run  an'  stay; 
It  cost  me  a  cool  two  thousand  just  to  enter  for  the  cup. 
But  I  thought  m.y  hoss  could  win  it,  an'  I  put  my  money  up. 

There  were  six  that  faced  the  starter,  an'  the  night  a-comin'  on; 
They  were  at  the  post  a  moment — ^in  another  they  were  gone. 
My  gray  hoss  went  out  and  took  the  track.      He  set  so  fast  a  pace 
He  had  that  field  o'  six  strung  out  in  the  first  mile  o'  the  race; 


98 


Talcs  of  the  Tttrf. 


He  led  them  by  three  open  lengths  when  they  galloped  by  the 

stand, 
An'  next  him  came  Burton's  chestnut  mare,  both  runnin'  well  in 

hand. 

The  second  time  they  passed  the  stand  my  gray  was  leadin'  still. 
It  seemed  like  he   ought  to   leave  the  mare  just  at  his  jockey's 

will. 
They  had  run  two  miles  already  then  an'  still  had  two  to  go. 
I  caught  the  flash  o'  my  scarlet  sash  —  a  fire-fly's  signal  glow. 
I  felt  the  hush  o'  the  multitude,  then  heard  somebody  yell: 
"My    God,    the    chestnut's   collared    the    gray  —  see    Burton's 

Prairie  Belle  !  " 

The  tale  was  true  —  a  mile  to  go  —  they  were  racin'  side  by  side, 
To  music  made  by  whip  an*  spur,  a-measurin'  stride  for  stride. 
They  sped  away  'round  the  lower  turn  an'  down  the  backstretch 

flew. 
They  looked  from  the  stand  a  single  hoss  —  you  'd  never  dreamed 

o'  two. 
I  felt  the  cold  sweat  runnin'  down  my  back  like  drops  o'  rain. 
A  sixteenth  out  she  faltered  a  bit,  then  gamely  came  again. 

The  gray  was  straining  every  nerve,  but  Burton's  mare  was  game. 
Three  times  she  seemed  a-givin'  it  up,  then  came  with  a  rush  again. 
The  air  was  full  o'  men's  flyin'  hats;  cheers  flew  about  like  hail; 
The   mare  was  comin'  along  outside,  my  gray  hoss  next  the  rail. 
In  the  last  few  strides  she  forged  ahead;  then,  staggering,  lurched 

and  fell. 
Dead  under  the  wire  —  a  winner,  too — lay  Burton's  Prairie  Belle! 


The  Driver  s  Story.  99 

THE  DRIVER'S  STORY. 

(Texas,  iS8o.) 

Yes,  sir;   I  've  been  drivin'  bosses  now  for  nigh  on  twenty  year, 
An'  I  've  seen  some  funny  races,  that  the  crowd  thought  mighty 

queer; 
An'  jest  once  I  handled  ribbons  when  I  really  felt  afraid  — 
I  were  drivin'  old  Snap  Dragon  in  a  race  'gin  Limpin'  Maid. 

It  were  'way  down  south,  in  Texas,  whar  the  boys  air  on  the  shoot, 
Carry  pistols  in  their  pockets,  an'  a  bowie  in  their  boot, 
An'  they  had  a  heap  o'  money  on  the  mare  an  'gin  the  boss, 
'Cause,  I  guess,  they  sorto'  reckoned  that  the  Limpin'  Maid  were 
boss. 

'T  were  a  match,  an'  the  conditions  were  the  best  two  out  o'  three, 
An'  the  stakes  they  were  five  thousand  — pretty  big  they  looked 

to  me. 
Well,  I  won  the  first  heat  easy,  sort  o'  come  home  in  a  jog; 
Looked  to  me  I  'd  take  the  money,  just  like  rollin'  off  a  log. 

Out  thar  stepped  a  long  lank  cowboy,  just  as  I  were  coolin'  out, 
An'  says  he  to  me,  "  Say,  stranger,  what  in  thunder  you  about? 
Me  an'  my  pards  has  our  money  in  the  pool-box  on  the  mare. 
If  she  loses  you  're  a-goner,  for  we're  bound  to  raise  your  hair." 

"Well,"  says  I,  my  dander  risin'  as  I  kind  o'  sized  the  game, 
"You  can  bluff  me,  but  I  'm  winnin'  wi'  Snap  Dragon  all  the  same.  " 
When  he  left  me  he  were  ugly,  but  I  didn't  budge  an  inch. 
Though  I  saw  he  thought  I  'd  weaken  when  it  came  down  to  the 
pinch. 

Both  of  us  were  goin'  level  when  the  starter  giv'  the  word. 
But  I  beat  her  goin'  easy  'round  the  first  turn  like  a  bird, 
Drew  away  along  the  backstretch  farther  still,  an'   squared  for 

home. 
When  I  heard  the  crowd  a-yellin',  an'  I  kinder  heaved  a  groan. 


lOO  Talcs  of  the  Titrf. 

"For,"  says  I,  "I  11  be  a  dead  man  when  I  reach  the  judges' stand, 
An'  I  haven't  got  no  mortgage  on  the  parson's  promised  land." 
But  I  kept  the  hoss  a-goin' —  I  were  twenty  lengths  or  more 
'Heado'  Limpin'  Maid,  I  reckon,  when   I  went  across  the  score. 

When  I  passed  the  wire,  such  yellin'  as  thar  was  —  'twould  split 

an  ear. 
Then  thar  come  the  sound  o'  pistols  firin'  rapid  in  my  rear. 
An',  a-turnin'  in  my  sulky,  what  I  saw,  on  lookin'  'round, 
Were    the    Limpin'    Maid's    tall    driver    lyin'   dead    upon     the 

ground. 

What  ?     The  reason  why  it  happened  ?     Well,  it 's  simple  as  can 

be: 
Them  air  fellows  thought  that  driver  had  been  sellin*  out  to  me; 
So  they  sorter  had  a  reck'nin',  an'  'fore  he  could  use  his  lips, 
They  had  dealt   a  brace  game  on    him,  an'  had  gathered  in   his 

chips. 

They  were  fools.     Why,  old  Snap  Dragon  could  have  beat  the 

mare  that  day, 
Hitched  to  sulky  or  to  wagon,  or  in  any  kind  o'  way. 
Oh,  I  had  a  great  reception  when  I  went  their  way  again! 
Though  they  thought  I  were  dishonest,  yet  they  'lowed  that   I 

were  eame. 


BOB  AIKEN'S  RIDE  TO  DEATH. 

Ax  Old  Owner's  Siorv. 

Did    I    know   little  Aiken,    the  jockey?     Why,  you  bet   I  did, 

stranger,  o'  course. 
No,  he  wasn't  no   rider  like  Murphy,  but  then  there  were  many 

lots  worse  — 
He'd  a  rattlin'  good   seat  an'  was  honest  —  that's  somethin'  ye 

can't  say  o'  all; 
An'  he  wasn't  afraid,  sir,  o'  nothin',  although  he  'd  had  many  a  fall. 


Bob  Aikeiis  Ride  to  Death.  loi 

I  fust  saw  the  lad  down   in  Texas;  he  were  ridin'  a  racer  called 

Belle, 
That  was  fast  as  a  shot  — for  three-quarters  her  owners  allowed 

she  were  hell. 
An'  I  'd  made  'em  a  match  for  five  hundred,  for  I  had  ahoss  o'  my 

own 
That  I  knowed  was  as   quick  as  chain-lightnin' —  a  geldin'  I'd 

christened  Shoshone. 

I  'm  not  goin'  to  tell  ye  the  story  about  that  are  race,  for  it 's  old, 
An'  ye   know  that  such  tales  become  chestnuts  when  they  has 

been  many  times  told; 
But  I  lost  both  my  hoss  an'  my  money;   my  boy  was  outrode  in 

the  dash, 
And  that   Belle,    with  that  feller,   young  Aiken,  just    galloped 

plumb  off  with  the  cash. 

Then  we  met — it  was  several  years  after  —  at  Louisville,  late  in 

the   fall; 
He  was  ridin'  my  hoss  in  the  Merchants',  a  long-stridin'  bay  they 

called  Saul. 
There  was  thirty  to  one  up  against  him  'fore  ever  he  went  to  the 

post; 
An'   Bob   Aiken  looked  sick  and   discouraged;   his  face  was  as 

white  as  a  ghost. 

The  race  was  the  fourth  on  the   programme,  an'  the  day  it  was 

rainy  and  cold, 
While  the  fog  like  a  pile  o'  gray  blankets  across  the  green  fields 

had  been  rolled. 
But  at  last  all  the  hosses  were  saddled,  an'  twelve  o'  them  went 

to  the  post. 
Gray  Nance  was  the  choice  o'  the  talent,  an'  o'  money  she  carried 

the  most. 


I02  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

When  I  helped  young  Aiken  to  saddle  he  complained  o'  a  pain  in 

his  side; 
But  he  reckoned  he  knew  his  own  business,  and   swore  he  were 

able  to  ride. 
Yet  my  heart  kind  o'  stood  in  my  throat  as  I  watched  him  slow 

gallop  away. 
His  face  looked  as  white  as  a  gravestone  loomin'  up  through  the 

mist  cold  an'  gray. 

They  stood  grouped  at  the  post  but  a  moment.     The  fog  hid  the 

start  from  our  view. 
x\s  they  dashed  by  the  stand  we  could  see  'em,  and  leadin'  the 

field  was  True  Blue; 
Gray  Nance  hangin'  right  on  his  quarter,  while  the  very  last  hoss 

of  'em  all 
Was  that  long-stridin'  bay  o'  Bob  Aiken's,  the  pride  o'  my  stable, 

that  Saul. 

They  was  gone  from  sight   in  a   moment,  an'  we  heard  but  the 

hurryin'  hoofs 
That  kept  on  a-makin'  sweet  music,  like  the  sound  o'  the  rain  on 

the  roofs. 
Down  the  backstretch,  a  ghostly  procession,  they  sped  through 

the  mist  an'  the  rain; 
Then  they  circled  the   turn   and  were  nearing  the  wire  an'  the 

grand  stand  again. 

First  I  heard  a  faint  cheer  in  the  distance  that  came  from  the  stables, 
I  knew. 

Then  they  cried  out,  "  The  favorite  's  beaten  !  "  "  Go  on  there, 
you  coon,  with  True  Blue  !  " 

Then  out  from  the  fog,  like  an  arrow — by  Jove,  he  was  leadin' 
'em  all  — 

Emerged  the  white  face  o'  Bob  Aiken,  who  was  ridin'  my  long- 
stridin'  Saul. 


The  Deacon  s  Purchase.  105 

Coming  on  steady  as  clock-work,  he  won  by  two  lengths  at  the 

stand, 
But  the  jockey  made  never  a  movement;  he  stirred  not  a  foot  or 

a  hand. 
When  the  hoss,  stopping  up  on   the   turn,  sir,  came  back  to  the 

weighing-out  place, 
Little  Aiken  sat  lookin'  afore  him  with  a  mark  as  o'  death  on  his 

face. 

I  spoke,  but  he  answered  me  not,  sir;  then  I  touched  him  an', 
"Judges,"  I  said. 

"  Must  I  weigh  in  the  corpse  ?  For  the  jockey  that  rode  Saul,  the 
winner,  is  dead  !  " 

"Aye,  aye,"  come  the  sorrowful  answer;  so  we  weighed  him  an' 
found  it  all  right. 

There  the  game  lad  lay  dead,  an'  me  richer  by  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars that  nieht. 


THE  DEACON'S  PURCHASE. 

The  Deacon  sat  down  in  his  easy-chair. 

"  Good  wife,"  said  he,  "  I  have  been  to  town, 
Where  the  people  are  holding  the  county  fair, 

And  I  went  to  see  it  with  Deacon  Brown. 
There  were  peaches  there  as  big  as  your  head, 
And  apples,  rosy  and  round  and  red; 
But  the  nicest  thing  of  'em  all  to  me 
Was  a  big  bay  mare  that  I  chanced  to  see. 

'  But  she  were  a  beauty,  and  no  mistake, 

And  she  stood,  I  reckon,  full  sixteen  hands; 
She  trotted  her  heats  with  never  a  break, 

An'  turned  at  a  touch  o'  the  driver's  hands. 
An'  I  say,  good  wife,  you  needn't  be  cross, 
But  I  out  with  the  dust,  an'  bought  that  hoss, 


io6  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

And  now,  going  to  church  or  coming  home, 
We  '11  take  no  dust,  for  we  '11  travel  alone." 

"Now,  Lor'  sakes  !"  said  the  good  old  wife;  "but,  my 
The  Deacon  's  crazy,  and  no  mistake." 

And  she  uttered  a  long-drawn,  heartfelt  sigh, 
As  she  thouQ-ht  of  Methodist  rules  he  'd  break 

By  going  to  church  at  a  break-neck  speed, 

And  driving  a  trotter — awful  deed. 

She  fancied  herself  on  the  anxious  seat 

Of  his  one-hoss  shay  in  the  crowded  street. 

When  the  Sunday  came  it  was  warm  and  bright, 
And  the  Deacon  hitched  up  his  big  bay  mare. 
And  lifted  his  wife  to  the  seat  as  light 

As  a  cavalier  —  while  she  breathed  a  prayer. 
Then  hurried  away  down  the  village  street, 
While  his  wife  held  on  to  the  anxious  seat; 
And  the  people  stood  on  the  walk  to  stare 
As  he  hurried  past  with  his  big  bay  mare. 

The  parson  attempted  to  drive  'longside 

With  his  sorrel  mare  and  his  one-hoss  shay. 
A  touch  of  the  whip,  and  the  parson's  pride 

Was  left  in  the  distance  far  away. 
The  livery  man  with  his  brand-new  rig 
Was  left  in  the  shade  by  the  Deacon's  gig, 
And  even  the  good  wife  smiled  in  church 
As  she  thought  how  all  were  left  in  the  lurch. 


Hozv    Wild  Rose    Won  the   Cup.  '  107 

HOW  WILD  ROSE  WON  THE  CUP. 


A  Trainer's  Story, 


You  have  heard,  I  suppose,  of  a  mare  called  Wild  Rose, 
That  was  bred  at  Belle  Meade,  down  in  old  Tennessee; 

How  she  ruined  young  Brown  once  by  beating  The  Clown 
And  a  host  of  good  horses  when  ridden  by  me. 

What !     You  ain't?     On  my  word,  now,  that's  really  absurd, 

For  that  race  made  a  wonderful  stir  in  its  day. 
On  an  old  Southern  course  it  was  run,  and  lots  worse 

Have  I  seen  since  I  flung  my  old  jacket  away. 

'T  was  a  long  time  ago,  ere  the  frost  and  the  snow 

Had  both  sifted  and  drifted  deep  into  my  hair. 
I  was  riding  for  Gray,  whom  I  've  often  heard  say: 
"  He  can  ride  like  the  devil  when  chased  by  a  prayer." 

'T  was  a  race  for  the  cup,  and  you  bet  up  and  up. 

With  five  hundred  a  corner  to  enter  and  run. 
There  was  Giles'  Mickey  Free  and  Bill  Bird's  Busy  Bee, 

Jimmy  Adams'  mare  Nance  and  Tom  Burton's  Gray  Nun. 

There  was  Featherly's  Kate,  and  a  horse  called  the  Mate, 
That  was  brought  up  from  Texas  on  purpose  to  start; 

Then  that  bay  horse  The  Clown,  that  belonged  to  Jim  Brown, 
And  a  gray  from  Kaintuck  that  was  known  as  The  Dart. 

To  these  eight  at  the  post  add  Wild  Rose  and  The  Ghost  — 
The  latter  a  slashing  big  black,  owned  by  Marr, 

With  a  mane  and  a  tail  like  a  lady's  crepe  veil. 
And  a  little  white  spot  on  his  face  like  a  star. 

My  instructions  were  few:   "  Just  look  out  for  those  two," 

Said  old  Gray,  and  he  mentioned  The  Ghost  and  The  Clown. 
"  If  the  pace  ain't  too  strong  let  the  mare  rate  along; 
Then  come  on  at  the  finish,  and  cut  them  all  down." 


io8  Talcs  of  the  TidJ. 

"'That  's  all  right,  sir,"  I  said,  as  I   nodded  my  head; 

Then  I  saw  the  flag  fall,  and  the  race  had  begun. 
We  were  all  well  abreast —though  just  leading  the  rest 

By  a  scant  head  and  shoulders  was  Burton's  Gray  Nun. 

'T  was  an  old-fashioned  dash  of  four   miles  for  the  cash. 
And  the  pace  was  a  burster  —  too  fast  from  the  start; 

So  I  took  the  mare  back  as  she  strode  o'er  the  track, 
Till  I  found  myself  eighth  and  alongside  The  Dart. 

AVhen  the  first  mile  was  done  we  had  settled  Gray  Nun, 
While  Nance,  too,  was  in  trouble,  and  so  was  The  Mate. 

Busy  Bee  with  Young  France  was  now  leading  the  dance. 
And  right  up  to  his  throat-latch  was  Featherly's  Kate. 

When  two  miles  had  been  passed  the  Gray  Nun  boys  were  last, 
And  't  was  Featherly's  Kate  showed  the  way  by  the  post. 

While  next  to  her  The  Dart,  running  strong  as  at  start. 
Showed  just  barely  a  throat-latch  in  front  of  The  Ghost. 

In  the  next  half  we  ran  racing  really  began. 

And  back  into  the  ruck  there  dropped  Featherly's  Kate, 

While  that  gray  horse,  The  Dart,  showed  a  touch  of  faint  heart. 
And  old  Wild  Rose  was  gaining  as  steady  as  fate. 

As  we  dashed  by'the  stand  the  wild  notes  of  a  band 
Floated  faint  to  my  ears  as  The  Ghost  led  the  way. 

While  the  patter  of  hoofs,  like  the  rain  on  the  roofs. 
Woke  the  echoes  heard  after  for  many  a  day. 

As  we  raced  'round  the  turn  I  could  scarcely  discern 
The  low  stables  that  seemed  to  sail  by  on  the  wind. 

But,  half  turning  my  head  as  still  onward  we  sped^ 
I  saw  The  Clown  coming  up  swift  from  behind. 

We'd  a  quarter  to  go,  and  we  rocked  to  and  fro, 

With  The  Clown  at  my  throat-latch  and  I  at  The  Ghost's, 


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The  Biters  Bit.  1 1 1 

While  the  white  flecks  of  foam  that  swift  backwards  were  blown 
To  my  fancy  seemed  bubbles  blown  back  at  the  posts. 

The  Ghost  faltered  a  bit  — he  was  too  game  to  quit, 
And  old  Wild  Rose  was  showing-  the  way  by  a  nose. 

Then  I  brought  my  whip  down,  and  she  shook  off  The  Clown 
As  before  me  the  stand  and  the  judges  arose. 

Good  God  !      How  she'd  reel  as  I  gave  her  the  steel  ! 
"The  Ghost  wins!     The  Ghost !"   echoed  over  the  track. 
Two  red  nostrils  flashed  fire  as  I  turned  in  my  ire, 
And  there  coming  again  was  that  demon  the  black. 

It  was  rock;  it  was  reel,  it  was  whip,  it  was  steel. 
As  first  one,  then  the  other,  would  show  in  advance. 

Oh!   my  blood  seemed  on  fire  as  we  swept  'neath  the  wire  — 
Had  The  Ghost  or  Wild  Rose  finished  first  in  the  dance  '^ 

When  I  rode  back  to  weigh  in  the  sunshine  that  day, 
I  was  greeted  by  deafening  cheers  from  the  stand. 

For  "  Wild  Rose  by  a  nose  !  "  was  the  verdict  of  those 
Who  could  see,  and  I  felt  like  a  king  in  the  land. 


THE  BITERS  BIT. 

A  Ballad  of  Brighton  Beach. 

At  Brighton,  by  the  ocean  deep, 

Beside  the  sandy  track, 
At  sunset  on  a  summer's  day, 
Two  trainers  close  together  lay, 
The  green  grass  at  their  back. 

The  sunbeams  danced  among  the  leaves 

Like  fairies  shod  with  light. 
And  over  by  the  stable  door 
There  stood  a  dozen  steeds  or  more  — 

It  was  a  goodly  sight. 


I  12 


Talcs  of  the    Tit?'/. 

"  I  say,  John,"  quoth  the  younger  man, 

With  laughter  in  his  eyes, 
"  I  '11  have  Jerusalem  pull  the  mare, 
Then  you  can  win  with  Captain  Clare; 

The  public  we  '11  surprise." 

"All  right,  Bill,"  answered  back  his  friend: 
"  I  think  that  scheme  will  go, 
The  mare  '11  be  favorite,  of  course. 
And  I  '11  jump  in  and  back  the  horse, 
While  you  can  j.ust  lay  low." 


-  -^t- 


"  T,.oj  trainers  close  to'^^elher  lay."' 

They  shook  hands  o'er  the  compact  made. 

Then  whistling  walked  away. 
Nor  dreamed  that  fate  could  have  in  store 
A  thing  that  should  surprise  them  more 

Than  any  seen  that  day. 


Next  day,  among  the  thoroughbreds 

That  faced  the  starter's  flag, 
Conspicuous  was  a  big  bay  mare. 
And  right  beside  her  Captain  Clare, 
And  next  a  sorrel  nag. 


The  Biters  Bit.  113; 

The  flag  went  down.     They  jumped  away, 

The  Captain  in  the  van. 
The  bay  mare  couldn't  run  a  yard, 
Jerusalem  held  her  back  so  hard, 

But,  Lord  !  the  sorrel  ran. 

They  circle  round  the  sandy  track; 

They  've  passed  the  half,  and  still 
The  sorrel  s  at  the  Captain's  girth  ! 
John's  eyes  have  lost  their  look  of  mirth. 

And  Wilham,  too,  is  still. 

Ho  !     Clear  the  track  !     They  're  coming  home; 

Great  Scott !  is  that  a  ghost  ? 
By  heavens  !  it 's  the  sorrel  mare, 
A  neck  ahead  of  Captain  Clare; 

She  's  nipped  him  on  the  post. 

At  Brighton,  by  the  ocean  deep. 

Beside  a  sandy  track, 
Two  trainers  cursed,  as  trainers  will 
Who  've  lost  their  wealth;   then  all  was  still. 

The  green  grass  at  their  back. 

The  moral  of  my  tale  is  plain: 

Dishonesty  don't  pay; 
One  better  have  the  best  horse  win 
Than  let  a  rank  outsider  in 

To  steal  the  purse  away. 


s.\\!//. 


114  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

IN   MEMORIAM. 

(Dan  Mace,  Died  18S5.) 

"  I  'm  trotting  my  last  great  race,"  he  said, 
This  wrinkled  driver  with  locks  of  gray, 
As  Death  drew  level,  and  head  and  head 

They  swept  t'ward  the  finish  not  far  away. 
Then  he  faintly  smiled  as  the  watchers  bent 

To  catch  from  his  lips  his  last  desire, 
And  he  said,  with  a  look  of  calm  content, 
"I  'm  eettinof  close  to  the  iudcres'  wire." 

Who  knows  of  this  driver's  death-bed  dreams  ? 

Did  he  drive  his  races  o'er  again  ? 
Did  his  thoughts  go  back  to  the  thrilling  scenes 

Of  the  track,  from  dying  bed  of  pain  ? 
Did  he  hear  again  the  madd'ning  cheers 

Of  the  crowd  as  he  urged  the  gallant  gray 
To  the  wagon  record  that  stood  for  years, 

And  that  stands  by  Time  untouched  to-day? 

They  have  laid  him  away  in  his  last  great  sleep, 

In  a  narrow  bed  of  the  sexton's  make. 
But  at  the  last,  when  the  shadows  creep, 

At  the  sound  of  the  judges'  bell  he'll  wake. 
And  there  we  trust  at  the  judges'  stand 

He  '11  be  awarded  a  better  place 
Than  ever  even  in  thought  he  'd  planned. 

As  he  drove  a  horse  in  a  waiting  race. 


Bride  of  Montgomery. 


115 


BRIDE 
OF    MONTGOMERY 


I  reckon  you  fellows  know  Bride — ■  Ira  E.  Bride,  of  Montgomery. 
Follered  the  horses  for  years,  an'  bin  sellin'  pools  on  the  circuit; 
Wears  a  plain  suit  o'  blue  jeans  made  down  in  Attakapas*  Parish; 
Cut  on  the  bias  an'  grored,  then  tied  like  a  sack  in  the  middle. 


*  Pronounced  Tuckapaw. 


1 16  Talcs  of  the  Tic?/. 

Queer  sort  o'  fellow  is  Bride,  jolly,  rotund  an'  good-natured; 
Fond  o'  his  mint-juleps,  too,  an'  a  mighty  fine  judge  o'  good  eatin'; 
Knows  all  the  horsemen  by  sight,  an'  the  horses  'way  back  to  Gray 

Eagle; 
Claims  that  his  suit  is    hand-made  by  the   fellow  that  one  time 

owned  Lightnin'. 

Eno-lish  he  is  to  the  core,  an'  so,  when  the  snows  o'  the  winter 
Fall  to  the  bosom  o'  earth,  wings  he  his  way  to  the  south'ard, 
Down  where  the  orange  trees  bloom,  an'  thar,  'neath  the  snowy 

magnolias, 
Sips  he  mint-juleps  again  an'  laughs  at  the  winds  o'  December. 

Takes  he  the  world  as  it  comes.      Lets  to-morrow  take  care  of 

to-morrow; 
Never  bets  nothin'  himself  on  the  races  —  that 's  nothin'  to  speak  of; 
Keeps  his  eyes  open   for  jobs.      If  he   sees  'em   he  doesn't  say 

nothin', 
Just  pockets  his  litde  per  cent,  for  holdin'  the  money  o'  others. 

Fond  he  is,  too,  o'  the  girls,  an'  the  glimpse  o'  a  neatly  turned 

ankle 
Will    bring   the    light    into    his    eyes    an'    set    his    great    heart 

a-jumpin', 
'Till  the   sound   o'  its  beats  can   be  heard  like  the   sound   o'  a 

mighty  trip-hammer, 
Wakin'  the  echoes  at  dawn  when  the  iron  hisses  white  on  the 

anvil. 

'Twas  at  Memphis  one  night  in  the  fall,  an',  thepool-sellin' bein' 

all  over, 
Bride  stood  just  outside  the  hotel,  when  there  tugged  at  his  elbow 

a  stranger 
Who  had  a  sure  thing  for  next  day,  the  surest  yet  seen  on  the 

circuit  — 
A  horse  that  could  win  in  a  walk,  an'  he  wanted  old  Ira  to  play  it. 


Bride  of  Alontgoniery.  117 

Bride  listened  in  peace  to  his  tale,  an'  then,  givin'  a  hitch  to  his 

blue-jeans, 
He  pulled  out  his  briar-wood  pipe,  an',  fillin'  it  up  with  tobacco, 
Scratched  coolly  a  lucifer  match  in  a  calm,  thoughtful  way  on  his 

breeches; 
Then  blew  out  a   great  cloud  o'  smoke  an'  told  him  he  'd  put 

on  the  money. 

Next  day,  when  the  sellin'  began.  Bride  boomed  the  dark  hoss 

with  his  money, 
Knocked  down  to  himself  every  pool  till  he  stood  to  win  four  or 

live  thousand; 
Then  stood  with  his  glasses  in  hand,  like  Ajax  defyin'  the  lightnin', 
An'  watched,  in  a  manner  intent,  every  jump  that  was  made  by 

the  bosses. 

The  dark  hoss  that  Ira  had  backed  on  the  word  an'  advice  o'  the 
stranger 

Led  his  field  for  two-thirds  o'  the  route,  an'  then  doubled  up  like 
a  jack-knife. 

Stopped  right  at  the  head  o'  the  stretch  like  he  had  been  struck 
by  a  cyclone, 

An'  faded  away  to  the  rear  like  a  shadow  that  's  lost  in  the  sun- 
light. 

Bride,  cussin'  himself  for  a  fool,  took  a  hack  and  drove  back  to 

the  city, 
Belted  'round  him  his  coat  o'  blue-jeans  that  was  made  down  in 

Attakapas  Parish, 
Drank  a   dozen   mint-juleps   or  so,  then  started  to  hunt  up  the 

stranger; 
But  the  stranger  had  vanished  an'  gone,  an'  so  had  the  money  o' 

Ira. 

That  's  the  reason  that  Bride  doesn't  bet,  but  leaves  pickin'  win- 
ners to  others; 


ii8  Talcs  of  the  Tilt/. 

Rests  content  with  his  Httle  per  cent,  for   holdin'  the  money  o* 

strangers; 
Takes  sugar  an'  mint-leaves  in  his,  an'  sits  with  his  eye  on  the 

crossin's, 
Resplendent  in  suito'  blue-jeans  made  down  in  Attakapas  Parish. 


LITTLE  SUNSHINE  AND  BONNIE  GRACE. 

'T  was  moah  dan  twenty  yeahs  ago. 

De  white  magnolia  trees 
War  lookin'  like  great  heaps  ob  snow, 

A-driftin'  in  de  breeze; 
De  roses  in  de  golden  light 

War  breakin'  inter  bloom; 
De  lilies  in  de  sunshine  bricrht 

Bent  down  to  welcome  June. 

Dar  came  to  de  old  Cap'ain's  place. 

From  far-off  Nordern  town, 
A  eal  wif  sunshine  in  her  face 

An'  har  ob  golden  brown. 
Her  mouf  were  like  a  rosebud  red, 

Half-hidden  in  de  snow, 
An'  when  she  shook  her  curly  head 

De  sunbeams  fell  below 

Her  dimpled  shouldahs,  marble  white, 

An'  coiled  upon  her  breas' 
Like  birds  dat  had  grown  tiahed  ob  flight 

An'  foun'  at  las'  deir  nes'. 
Her  voice  was  like  de  golden  bell 

Dat  rings  in  heaben's  street; 
Her  blue  eyes  seemed  to  cast  a  spell 

On  all  she  chanced  to  meet. 


Little  Sicnshine  and  Bonnie  Grace.  119 

She  war  mighty  fon'  ob  horses, 

And  would  of  en  come  to  me 
Fo'  to  talk  about  de  crosses 

In  some  famous  pedigree; 
But  de  hoss  dat  mos'  she  'd  fancy 

War  a  mare  called  Bonnie  Grace, 
By  ole  Rebel,  out  ob  Nancy, 

An'  de  pride  ob  all  de  place. 

Bonnie  Grace,  too,  larned  to  lub  her, 

An'  one  night  de  Cap'ain  said, 
As  he  sof  ly  bent  above  her, 

Wid  his  hand  upon  her  head: 
"  Little  Sunshine,  fo'  de  shadows 

Dat  you  banished  from  de  place 
When  you  came  across  de  meadows, 

I  will  gib  you  Bonnie  Grace." 

June  went  driftin'  down  de  riber. 

On  de  boat  o'   Fader  Time. 
Summah  days  don'  las'  fo'eber  — 

Wintah  waits  jes'  down  the  line. 
As  de  mont's  went  troopin'  aftah, 

An'  den  vanished,  one  by  one, 
Little  Sunshine's  ripplin'  laughtah 

Still  made  music  in  de  sun. 

Den,  at  las',  a  shadow  fallin 

Settled  on  de  deah  ole  home, 
An'  de  angels  'gan  deir  callin' 

Little  Sunshine  fo'  to  come. 
Den  she  faded  as  the  day-time 

Fades  along  de  w^es'ern  sky. 
As  the  violets  do  in  May-time, 

When  dey  widder  up  an'  die. 


I20 


Talcs  of  the  T7irf. 

'Pears  dat  Bonnie  Grace  war  missin' 

Little  Sunshine  mo'  dan  all; 
She  would  stan'  id  hours  an  listen 

In  de  clover  for  her  call, 
Wait  until  de  darkness  roun'  her 

Fell  a  black  an'  sable  cloak  — 
Till  I  sen'  a  man  to  fin'  her, 

Lock  her  up  in  walls  ob  oak. 


'•/•('//«'  her  dead,  her  head  a-restin^ 
0)t  po'  Little  Sitiishine^s  grabey 

Def  came  in  de  mild  September, 

Sen'  darby  de  King  ob  kings; 
Pears  to  me  I  mos'  remember 

Little  Sunshine's  taking  wings. 
Angels  opened  wide  de  po'tals 

Fo'  to  let  deir  sistah  in, 
Whar  de  feet  ob  de  immo'tals 

Res'  fo'eber  free  from  sin. 


Lexiitgtoji:  A  Fragment,  121 

She  war  buried  by  de  riber 

Whar  de  tangled  grasses  grow, 
Whar  de  white  magnoHas  eber 

Blossom  out  in  drif's  ob  snow. 
Bonnie  Grace  dat  night  war  missin', 

But  de  light  dat  mawnin'  gabe 
Foun'  her  dead,  her  head  a-restin' 

On  po'  Little  Sunshine's  grabe. 


LEXINGTON:   A  FRAGMENT. 

I  've  a  picture,  time-discolored,  hanging  on  my  chamber  wall, 
Taken  from  an  old  oil-painting  that  to  memory  will  recall 

Years  from  now  the  ancient  legends  of  those  races  run  of  old, 
When  the  winters  were  of  silver  and  the  summer-times  of  gold, 

On  a  race-track  in   the  southlands,  where  those  flyino-  feet   once 

trod, 
That  has  blossomed  out  in  gravestones,  that  has  rippled  up  in  sod. 

And  a  marble  shaft  uprisen  casts  its  shadow  o'er  the  land, 
Where  in  summers  long  forgotten  once  there  stood  the  iudo-es' 
stand. 

Where  the  cypress  boughs  are  weeping  as  they  bend  above  the 

dead. 
And  the  roses  bud  and  blossom,  dust  to  dust  again  is  wed. 

And  the  cry  of  stricken  mourners  that  is  muffled  up  in  tears 
Sadly  sweeps  along  the  greensward  that  once  echoed  back  the 
cheers 

Of  an  eager  crowd  that,  waiting,  in  the  shadow  and  the  sun. 
Hailed  the  mighty  son  of  Boston,  the  immortal  Lexino-ton. 


122  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

'T  is  a  picture  of  a  stallion,  standing-  where  the  robins  call, 
'Neath  an  ivy  vine  that  clambers  o'er  a  ruined  garden  wall. 

And  the  tendrils  overhanging  almost  fall  upon  his  back, 
And  I  fancy  he  is  list'ning  for  the  music  of  the  track. 

With  his  blaze  face   and  white  stockings,  as  he  stands  there  in 

the  sun, 
Looks  he  like  some  mighty  monarch  dreaming  o'er  his  battles 

won. 

Blind,  he  peers  about,  but  sees  not.      Now  and  then  he  pricks  his 

ears, 
List'ning  for  the  judges'  summons,  waiting  vainly  for  the  cheers 

That  were  wont  of  old  to  greet  him  when   he  trod  the  track  a 

king. 
When  men  met  and  told  each  other  of  his  greatness  in  the  ring. 

Lord  and  master  of  the  harem,  in  his  paddock  all  alone. 
Sighs  he  for  new  worlds  to  conquer  ?     Dreams   he  of  another 
throne  ? 

O'er  a  little  mound  at  Woodburn  drifts  in  winter-time  the  snow, 
And  the  blossoms  fall  upon  it  when  the  summer  breezes  blow. 

There  the,  hero  blind  is  sleeping,  but  his  mem'ry  lives,  to-day. 
Ever  in  the  hearts  of  turfmen,  fresh  as  hawthorn  buds  in  May. 

Sire  was  he  of  horses  fleeter  than  the  Arab  barbs  of  old 

That  were  counted  in  the  desert  worth  their  weight  in  virgin  gold. 

W^hispers  fly  about  the  race-tracks  when  some   mighty  deed  is 

done: 
"'Tis  no  more  than  we  expected  from  the  blood  of  Lexington  !  " 


McCarthy  s  Phig  Hat.  123 

McCarthy's  plug  hat. 

(Chicago,  1887.) 

Of  all  the  queer  sights  that  a  mortal  has  seen 

Since  fairies  first  gamboled  and  played  on  the  green, 

And  rode  the  black  crickets  about  in  their  mirth, 

When  the  night  dropped  its  black  velvet  mantle  to  earth. 

To  the  stage  coach  they  drove  in  my  grandfather's  days. 

That  tumbled  and  lurched  o'er  the  corduroy  ways  — 

The  strangest  of  all,  seen  in  palace  or  flat. 

Was  worn  by  McCarthy,  and  called  a  plug  hat. 


"  //  looms  up  like  a  light-house  seeti  through  a  /o^." 

The  name  of  its  maker  the  Lord  only  knows; 
Its  trials  and  troubles,  its  sorrows  and  woes, 
Have  so  changed  its  appearance,  McCarthy  himself 
Has  forgotten  its  looks  when  it  lay  on  the  shelf. 
It  might  have  been  white  in  some  far-away  day; 
It  might  have  been  yellow,  slate-colored  or  gray; 
It  might  have  been  striped  and  streaked  like  a  cat; 
It's  a  queer  combination  —  McCarthy's  plug  hat» 


124  Talcs  of  the  Tiirf. 

It  looms  up  like  a  light-house  seen  through  a  fog; 
It  resembles  a  wart  that  has  grown  on  a  log. 
If  a  knio-ht  of  St.  Patrick  could  borrow  that  tile 
To  wear  on  parade,  how  the  lasses  would  smile. 
The  smoke  and  the  dust  that  have  rolled  o'er  its  rim 
Have  left  it  discolored  from  crown  down  to  brim. 
It  might  have  been  purchased  at  Poverty  Flat, 
So  out  of  all  fashion  's  McCarthy's  plug  hat. 

Whenever  McCarthy  appears  on  the  track, 
He  's  a  crowd  of  admirers  that  stand  at  his  back. 
In  open-eyed  wonder  they  look  and  they  smile, 
As  they  take  in  the  shape  of  his  queer-looking  tile; 
And  even  the  steed  that  goes  hurrying  by 
Gives  a  whinny  of  mirth  as  it  catches  his  eye. 
For  nothing  so  strange,  in  palace  or  flat. 
Has  ever  been  seen  as  McCarthy's  plug  hat. 


THE  TOUT'S  STORY. 

AVell,  yes,  you  are  right,  sir —  I  am  a  tout  — 
Been  around  among  horses  all  my  life, 

And  been  kicked,  sir,  and  cuffed,  and  knocked  about 
Like  a  shuttlecock,  in  this  world  o'  strife. 

Have  I  made  any  money  .'*      Yes,  sir,  some. 

And  I  made  it,  too,  in  an  honest  way. 
It  was  out  o'  the  books  it  had  to  come, 

Though  they  got  the  most  o'  it  back  next  day. 

No,  I  haven't  got  any  now,  you  're  right; 

But  then  life  is  full  o'  these  ups  and  downs: 
For  Dame  Fortune  will  sweetly  smile  one  night. 

Then  perhaps  the  very  next  day  she  frowns. 


The  Tout's  Story.  125 

I  thought,  sir,  that  Belle  o'  the  West  would  win; 

She  ran  a  good  second  the  other  day. 
This  time  she  was  really  the  last  horse  in. 

It 's  funny,  sir,  ain't  it?      But  that  's  their  way. 

Horses,  you  know,  are  most  uncertain  things  — 
There  's  no  one  can  tell  just  what  they  will  do; 

Yet  racing,  they  say,  is  "  the  sport  o'  kings," 
And  I  think  for  that  very  reason  too. 

For  only  a  king,  so  it  seems  to  me, 

With  the  wealth  of  a  kingdom  at  his  back, 
Can  afford  to  plunge  on  the  racers.      See  ? 

They  '11  cripple  him  then  ere  he  leaves  the  track. 

How  do  I  fancy  the  life  of  a  tout  ? 

Well,  sometimes  I  like  it,  and  sometimes  not. 
We  float  with  the  tide  and  we  drift  about, 

Till  we  settle  down  in  a  graveyard  lot. 

In  summer  the  life  is  not  hard  at  all. 

We  can  sleep  out-doors  in  the  tangled  grass, 
While  the  whip-poor-wills  sweet  all  'round  us  call, 

And  the  shadows  o'  night-time  come  and  pass. 

I  '11  warrant  you,  sir,  on  the  dew-wet  ground; 

With  a  star-gemmed  blanket  over  my  head, 
I  can  sleep  as  peacefully  and  as  sound 

As  can  you  at  home  in  your  downy  bed. 

But,  sir,  in  the  winter-time,  when  the  snow 

Drifts  high  and  eddies  about  in  the  street, 
It 's  hard  on  a  chap  with  no  place  to  go 

And  half  o'  the  time  not  enough  to  eat. 

Then  we  see  strange  things  in  our  travels,  too. 
The  owners  fool  us  whenever  they  can. 


126  Talcs  of  the  Turf. 

Here  's  a  little  yarn  that  I  '11  spin  to  you, 
For  they  tell  me  you  are  a  writing-  man. 

It  concerns  the  Derby,  four  years  ago, 

That  the  folks  all  thought  that  Miss  Ford  would  win. 
I  'd  been  nosing  'round,  and  I  thought  somehow 

There  were  stable  secrets  I  might  get  in. 

For  those  chaps  that  came  from  the  Golden  State 
Had  a  string  o'  horses,  and  all  well-bred. 

That  they  'd  win  the  Derby  as  sure  as  fate 
Was  the  strange  idea  that  entered  my  head. 

What  they  could  win  with  I  didn't  then  know  — 
They  hadn't  run  anything  up  to  that  date. 

They  \^e  something  good,  sir,  wherever  they  go, 
And  I  made  up  my  mind  to  watch  and  wait. 

At  last  I  settled  the  thing  in  my  mind 

That  a  chestnut  colt  was  the  one  they  'd  run, 

And  I  tried  to  think  of  a  way  to  find 

Out  just  how  good  was  the  work  that  he  'd  done. 

About  his  stable  I  managed  to  lurk 

From  the  early  dawn  till  the  sun  had  set, 

But  never  a  sign  could  I  see  of  work, 

Save  the  long  slow  gallops  the  colt  would  get. 

Then  one  night  a  thought  crept  into  my  mind: 
There  's  no  use  getting  up  with  the  lark: 

If  it 's  the  public  they  're  trying  to  blind. 

They  '11  send  that  chestnut  along  in  the  dark. 

So  that  same  night,  sir,  I  made  me  a  bed 

In  the  long,  deep  grass  near  the  timer's  stand. 

And  there,  with  the  stars  shining  bright  o'erhead, 
I  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  a  cricket  band. 


The  Tout's  Story.  127 

It  must  have  been  about  two  in  the  morn 

That  something  woke  me.     It  might  have  been  Fate, 

I  looked  for  a  day  that  was  yet  unborn, 
And  I  heard  the  cHck  o'  the  stable  gate. 

Then  I  saw  some  shadowy  forms  appear 

On  the  dusty  track  at  the  farther  end 
O'  the  stretch,  and,  crouching  down  in  my  fear, 

I  watched  them  slow  circle  around  the  bend. 

As  nearer  they  came  I  could  just  make  out 

A  colt  that  was  mostly  hidden  from  sight 
By  a  blanket,  while  they  led  him  about. 

Making  up  their  plans  for  a  moonlight  flight. 

At  each  quarter  pole  they  posted  a  man, 

With  his  lantern  alight  to  wave  in  air. 
When  the  colt  that  they  tried  on  past  him  ran 

To  signal  the  fact  to  the  timers  there. 

Then  the  colt  was  galloped  and  well  cooled  out; 

The  last  instructions  were  given  the  jock, 
To  break  away  at  a  point  on  the  route 

They  had  marked  for  him  with  a  piece  o'  rock. 

Next  I  heard  the  sound  o'  his  flying  feet 

As  he  broke  away,  and  a  swinging  light 
On  the  stable-turn,  where  the  shadows  meet. 

Told  me  that  the  chestnut  was  full  in  flight. 

Ttie  mile  was  done,  and  still  faster  he  flew. 

His  rattling  hoofs,  like  the  sound  of  a  drum, 
Shook  off  from  the  blades  o'  the  grass  the  dew 

And  left  them  dry  to  burn  up  in  the  sun. 

He  finished  flying,  sir,  right  at  the  stand, 
And  I,  listening,  heard  an  old  man  say: 


128  Talcs  of  the  Tiwf. 

"  There  's  not  a  race-horse  in  all  the  land 
That 's  fitter  than  he  for  a  Derby  play." 

They  never  knew,  sir,  not  one  o'  the  crowd, 

A  tout  lay  listening  there  in  the  grass; 
Else  they  would  never  have  spoken  so  loud 

O'  their  future  plans  —  but  we  '11  let  that  pass- 
Sufficient  to  say  that  I  learned  the  name 

O'  the  chestnut  colt  and  the  time  he  'd  made. 
They  've  written  it  now  on  the  walls  o'  fame. 

A  winner  from  memory  ne'er  will  fade. 

Then  I  hunted  up  a  man  that  I  knew, 
A  regular  hummer,  sir,  he  for  style, 

Who  would  bet  o'  money  enough  for  two, 

And  I  told  him  the  tale  o'  that  moonlight  tri'l.. 

You  remember  well  how  the  race  turned  out; 

How  the  chestnut  colt,  at  "thirty  to  one," 
Just  beat  Miss  Ford  by  a  nose.     No  doubt 

You  were  there  yourself,  sir,  and  saw  the  fun- 
That  night  when  my  friend  divided  with  me 

The  amount  that  he  'd  won  on  Todd  that  day, 
I  ^d  three  thousand  dollars;   so  you  can  see 

It  looked  like  things  were  a-coming  my  way. 

Then  I  went  to  plunging  on  every  race; 

That  I  could  beat  them  I  'd  never  a  doubt. 
So  I  backed  my  favorites  straight  and  place, 

And  in  just  four  days  they  had  cleaned  me  out. 

Since  then  I  've  been  living  from  hand  to  mouth; 

Many  a  time  I  've  gone  hungry  to  bed. 
And  I  've  slept  out-doors  in  the  sunny  south 

'Neath  a  biq-  blue  blanket  the  Lord  had  spread. 


Biuis  of  spring.  129 

What  ?     How  will  it  end  ?     Well,  God  only  knows. 

In  a  nameless  grave,  though,  like  as  not. 
What  difference,  then,  sir,  whether  it  snows, 

Or  whether  the  sunbeams  are  burning  hot  ? 

You  are  going,  are  you  ?     Ah,  well,  good  night. 

If  there  's  anything  good  I  '11  come  to  you. 
You  look  like  a  chap  as  would  treat  one  right. 

That  tale  about  Todd  and  his  trial  is  true. 


BUDS  OF  SPRING. 

Bold,  blustering  March,  with  bated  breath, 
Steals  quickly  through  the  woods  away. 

And  with  him  go  the  chills  of  death, 
That  fade  before  the  perfect  day. 

While,  half  in  laughter,  half  in  tears. 

Comes  April  with  its  sun  and  showers  — 

A  maiden  full  of  hopes  and  fears. 

Whose  footsteps  wake  the  sleeping  flowers. 

The  maples  bud  and  blow  in  leaves; 

The  bare  brown  fields  are  turned  to  green; 
The  wheat  gives  promise  of  the  sheaves 

That  later  in  the  year  are  seen. 

The  grand  old  broodmare  looks  with  pride» 
The  while  she  hears  the  robins  sing, 

Down  at  the  two  foals  at  her  side  — 
Her  coming  flyers  —  Buds  of  Spring. 


"  Hi)-  coming  flyers — Buds  of  Spiiii^-. 


IT. 
"RANK  outsiders; 


"RANK  OUTSIDERS." 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  FAST  MAIL. 

Young-  man,  I  am  tired  and  weary,   and   I  '11  borrow  your  chair 

awhile, 
To  sit  by  your  office  window,  where  the  golden  sunbeams  smile; 
For  I  've  driven  from  home  since  morning,  although  I  am  old  and 

gray, 
To  see  Uncle  Sam's  pet  hobby,  the  Fast  White  Mail,  to-day. 

How  time  keeps  a-ringing  his  changes  !      It  ain't  many  years  ago 
Since  I  traveled  this  same  road,  youngster,  in  a  stage  coach  old 

and  slow. 
There  wasn't  a  sign  of  a  railroad,  nor  a  telegraph  pole  in  sight, 
And  the  earth  lay  asleep  in  a  mantle  of  snow-flakes  pure  and 

white. 

A  little  log  cabin,  yonder,  peeped  out  at  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
Like  the  face  of  a  nut-brown  maiden  from  under  her  snow-white 

hood. 
And  there  we  unhitched  our  horses,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray. 
To  rest  from  our  weary  journey  till  the  dawn  of  another  day. 

I  came  here  again  the  next  summer,  when  meadows  with  crass 

were  green, 
When  birds  were  at  play  in  the  oak  trees,   and  fish  asleep  in 

the  stream, 

And  I  built,  in  a  little  clearing  'way  yonder  over  the  hill, 

A  cabin  of  logs  and  brushwood;   and,  stranger,  I  live  there  still. 

133 


134 


''Rank  Outsider s.'' 


But  the  cabin  of  logs  has  vanished.     There  stands  in  its  place 

to-day 
A  mansion  of  brick  and  granite,  while  over  across  the  way 
My  lad  has  built  him  a  cottage — a  cottage  he  calls  his  own, 
That  discounts  the  big  brick  mansion  where  the  old  man  isn't  at 

home. 


"  The^>  didii'f  tlur.k  that  the  stage  coach  7i>as  litniberi>i' ,  old  and  s/o7a." 

For  old  dogs  don't  learn  new  habits,  and  an  old  man's  hard  to 

please;   . 
It's  not  easy  to  rest  from  labor  when  one  isn't  used  to  ease. 
Vet  I  don't  know  as  I  'd  be  willin'  to  toil  in  the  fields  again, 
A-workin'  for  paper  dollars  and  a-killin'  both  heart  and  brain. 

Once  a  week  we  got  our  mails  then.     Folks  wa'  n't  in  a  hurry  to 

go- 
They  didn't  think  that  the  stage  coach  was  lumberin',  old  and 

slow; 
You   couldn't  have  made  us  believe  it,  if  you  'd  argued  an  hour 

or  more. 
They  'd  be  carryin'  mails  by  steam  power  an'  throwin'  em  off  at 

the  door. 


The  Old  Man  and  the  Fast  Mail.  137 

Now  cars  run  over  their  road-beds  with  the  speed  of  a  gust  of 

wind; 
They  've  left   the  lumberin'  stage  coach   and   the  old-fashioned 

ways  behind, 
And  they  tell  me  to  lands  far  westward,  where  the  eagle  has  left 

its  trail. 
Uncle  Sam  is  sendin'  'em  letters  by  way  of  a  Fast  White  Mail. 

Well,  times  are  a-changin'  surely.    One  is  never  too  old  to  learn. 
Though   there    may   be   flaws  in  the   marble  my  old   eyes   can't 

discern; 
Yet  I  'm  tired  o'  the  deacon's  croakin'.   I  wish  he  'd  eive  us  a  rest. 
God's  runnin'  this  world,  I  reckon,  and  He  doeth  what  seems  the 

best. 

So  I  've  driven  from  home  since  mornin',  although  I  am  old  and 

gray, 
To  see  Uncle  Sam's  pet  hobby,  the  Fast  White  Mail,  to-day. 
In   twenty-six  hours,  they  tell  me, —  and  it  beats  an  old  man  like 

me, — 
They  're  readin'  the  New  York  papers  in  the  Queen  of  the  Inland 

Sea. 

Now  I  '11  move  my  arm-chair,  youngster,  and  sit  where  the  bright 

sun  smiles, 
Till  I  hear   on   the  curve  down   yonder  the  whistle  of  old  John 

Miles; 
For  they  tell   me   he   runs   an   engine  on  the  Fast  White   Mail 

to-day, 
And  he  runs  like  a  reckless  fellow  if  his  hair  is  turnin'  gray. 

The  old  man  sat  by  the  window  till  we  saw  o'er  the  curve  below 
The  smoke  from  the  coming  engine  like  the  wings  of  a  great  black 

crow. 
Then  he  crept  with  a  gait  unsteady  out  o'er  the  office  floor, 
And  stood  like  a  statue,  watching  the  train  from  the  open  door. 


138  ''Rank  Outsidcrsy 

It  came  like  a  great  white  arrow,  tipped  with  a  barb  of  steel, 
Spurning  the  road  beneath  it  with  the  touch  of  its  iron-shod  wheel; 
Catching   the   mail   while   passing,  with  a  demon's  outstretched 

hand, 
To  be  scattered  in  showers  of  blessings  afar  o'er  a  peaceful  land. 

Old  Miles,  with  his  hand  on  the  lever,  looked  out  as  he  passed 

the  door, 
Looked  out  at  the  sunbeams  stealinor  swift  clear  clown  to  the  lake's 

green  shore, 
Then  pulled  the  throttle  wide  open  and  seemed  with  his  air  to  say, 
"  Uncle  Sam,  I  could  beat  the  lightning  with  your  Fast  White  Mail 

to-day." 

The  old  man  looked  in  wonder  as  they  caught  the  mail  below. 
"Aye,  times  are  fast,"  he  muttered,  "for  that  idee  ain't  slow." 
And  then,  as  away  it  vanished,  with  a  flash  like  a  comet's  tail. 
He  said,  "  Old  Time,  you  're  euchred  by  steam  and  a  Fast  White 
Mail." 

AN   OUTCAST'S  STORY. 

(Toi.D  Beneath  a  Chandelier.) 

Why  tell  you  my  story  ?      What  good  will  it  do  } 
The  tale  of  an  outcast  won't  interest  you. 
Well,  if  you  insist,  sir,  my  name  here  is  Rose  — 
Of  course,  not  my  real  name,  as  every  one  knows. 
And  I  'm  just  twenty-three,  but  was  never  a  wife; 
Yet  since  I  was  eighteen  I  've  followed  this  life. 
God  knows,  if  I  could,  I  would  leave  it  to-day. 
Why  don't  I  ?     Ah,  sir,  you  don't  know  what  you  say. 
But  here  !   draw  your  chair,  sir,  up  closer  to  mine. 
Yes,  thank  you,  I  will;  for  this  generous  wine 
Serves  to  make  me  forget  I  once  might  have  been 
A  proud,  happy  wife  —  not  the  plaything  of  men. 


An  Outcast's  Story.  139 

The  die  has  been  cast.     'T  is  too  late  to  recall 
The  love  and  respect  that  I  lost  by  my  fall. 
Remember  this,  sir:  that  a  man  was  to  blame 
For  my  sin  and  sorrow  —  my  fall  and  my  shame. 

In  a  little  country  village, 

Where  the  apple-blossoms  turn 
Pink  and  white  in  early  springtime. 

And  where  the  red  sumachs  burn 
In  the  golden  days  of  autumn, 

Like  to  torch-lights  on  the  wall. 
Lived  a  simple  country  maiden, 

Loved  and  petted,  sir,  by  all. 

Around  the  cottage  where  she  lived 

Climbed  the  roses,  white  and  red. 
And  the  birds  among  the  maples 

Laughed  and  chattered  overhead. 
Naught  knew  she  of  care  and  trouble; 

Sang  she  gaily  all  day  long, 
While  the  robins  seemed  to  listen 

And  to  echo  back  her  song. 

Pride  was  she  of  all  the  village. 

And  her  father,  old  and  gray, 
Loved  her  as  he  loved  the  sunshine 

Drifting  o'er  his  darkened  way; 
While  her  mother,  old  and  feeble. 

Fairly  worshiped  at  her  shrine, 
Prayed  that  God  would  bless  and  keep  her. 

In  that  far-off  happy  time. 

Grew  the  girl  in  grace  and  beauty, 

As  the  years  crept  swiftly  by. 
To  her  cheek  there  crept  the  roses, 

And  the  violets  to  her  eye. 


i^o  ''Rank  Outsiders^ 

White  and  full  the  throbbing  bosom 
That  beneath  her  bodice  lay; 

Arms  as  round  as  ever  sculptor 
Modeled  fanciful  in  clay. 

Suitors  plenty  came  to  woo  her, 

But  to  none  she  orave  her  heart; 
Dreamed  she  of  a  prince,  who,  coming, 

Of  her  life  should  be  a  part. 
Once  somewhere  she  'd  read  the  story 

Of  a  king  who  long  ago 
Wooed  a  beggar  maid  and  won  her. 

Might  a  prince  not  woo  her  so? 

Came  a  young  man  to  the  village 

From  the  city  far  away  — 
Came  to  dream  there  in  the  sunshine, 

While  the  reapers  made  their  hay. 
Wooed  with  tender  words  the  maiden, 

Wooed  her  as  a  prince  might  woo; 
Hand  in  hand  they  walked  together 
In  the  starlight  and  the  dew. 

Then  one  night,  when  all  were  sleeping 

In  the  village,  'neath  the  stars. 
Stole  the  maiden  forth  to  meet  him 

By  the  lonely  meadow  bars, 
Where  a  carriage  stood  in  waiting. 

Not  until  the  early  dawn 
Did  the  broken-hearted  old  folks 

Know  their  pet  and  pride  had  gone.- 

How  I  loved  him  none  will  know,  sir  — 

God  help  me,  I  love  him  still, 
Though  he  robbed  my  life  of  sunshine  — 
Thoueh  he  worked  me  nauo-ht  but  ill. 


Alt  Outcast's  Story.  141 

Fled  we  to  a  distant  city, 

Where  at  last  my  babe  was  born, — 
Dead,  for  which  I  thanked  the  Savior, — 
For  he  left  me  that  same  morn. 

Back  to  life  I  somehow  drifted, 

Though  I  often  prayed  to  die. 
While  there  passed  my  life  before  me 

Like  a  shadow  flitting-  by. 
Work  I  sought,  but  none  would  give  it: 

I  had  left  the  narrow  lane 
For  the  highway  broad  of  pleasure. 
And  it  ended  in  my  shame. 

So  one  night;  when  weak  and  famished 

Bidden  by  the  tempter's  spell, 
Entered  I  the  stately  portals 

Of  King  Pleasure's  gilded  hell. 
Many  men  here  join  our  revels. 

Stopping  not  to  count  the  cost. 
Leaving,  still  they  're  social  lions. 

But  the  woman,  sir,  is  lost. 

There,  sir,  is  my  story.      God  pity  the  maid 

Who  falls  as  I  fell,  for  the  price  that  I  paid 

Was  my  peace  on  earth.     Oft  I  dream  when  alone 

Of  the  roses  that  blossom  about  my  old  home. 

I  cry  out  to  Death  from  the  depths  of  despair; 

I  'd  pray  if  I  thought  Christ  would  answer  my  prayer. — 

Excuse  me;  you  come  here  for  pleasure,  and  I  — 

I  '11  try  and  laugh  now,  so  you  '11  think  it  a  lie. 


142  ''Rank  Oittsidcrsy 

BILLY  BROWN   OF  KOKOMO. 

There  lived  down  in  Indiana,  in  a  little  country  town, 

Years  ag"o,  a  slick  young-  fellow  that  the  boys  called  Billy  Brown, 

He  was  captain  of  a  base  ball  team  and  good  at  any  game, 

But  his  skill  at  playing  billiards  was  what  gave  him  all  his  fame. 

He  had  first  begun  to  practice  with  the  cue  when  quite  a  lad, 
And  his  love  of  playing  billiards  often  made  the  old  man  sad. 
He  soon  caught  the  trick  of  nursing,  and  would  lead  them  up  the 

rail 
As  though  they  were  but  tiny  ships  being  blown  before  the  gale. 

One  by  one  the  boys  were  beaten ;  one  by  one  the  men  went  down, 
And  in  time  the  youngster  blossomed  out  as  champion  of  the 

town. 
All  the  drummers  learned  to  know  him,  and  to  know  him  to  theii 

cost. 
Billy  played  them  all  for  money,  and  the   drummers  always  lost. 

Then  he  practiced  cushion  caroms,  learned  the  balk-line  game 

to  play, 
And  his  head  kept  ever  swellings,  swelling,  swelling-,  day  by  day. 
Sighed  he   for  new  worlds   to  conquer,  that  should  add  unto  his 

fame. 
Trav'ling  men  no  longer  played  him:   they  had  tumbled  to  his 

game. 

"Boys,  I  'm  going  to  Chicago,"  Billy  said  one  night  in  fall, 
"  To  the  city  by  the  lakeside,  and  I  guess  I  '11  beat  them  alL 
Schaefer  may  be  quite  a  player,  but  I  've  got  my  stroke,  you  see, 
And  he  '11  think  he  's  struck  a  cyclone  when  he  gets  to  playing 
me." 

'Twas   one   cold    night    in    November,    when    the   streets  were 

wrapped  in  gloom, 
That  a  group  of  billiard  players  idly  sat  in  Schaefer's  room. 


"  Still frotn  Schaefer's  magic  cue 
One  by  one  the  points  kept  dropping,  as  at  twilight  drops  the  dew." 


Billy  Broiun  of  Kokouio.  145 

Swung  the  door  upon  its  hinges,  and  there  entered  Billy  Brown, 
Laid  a  hundred  on  the  table,  with  a  challenge  to  the  town. 

Silence  fell  upon  the  players,  as  the  night  upon  the  deep, 

For  the   stranger's  nerve,  like  Carter's,  nearly  put  them  all  to 

sleep. 
But,   at  last,  a  little  German  said,  in  accents  halt  and  lame, 
"Veil,   I   blays  you  for  dot  hundert,   ef  you  blay   der   four-ball 

game." 

"I  'm  not  playing  now  with  infants,"  Billy  answered  with  a  smile, 
Never  dreaming  't  was  the  Wizard  he  was  talking  to  the  while. 
"Play  two  hundred  points    at  balk-line  for  this  hundred-dollar 

bill." 
Jacob  scratched  his  head  a  moment;  then  he  answered,   "Veil, 

Ivill." 

Shook  the  listeners'  sides  with  laughter,  as  they  gathered  'round 

the  pair. 
Caught  Brown's  look  of  calm  contentment  and  Jake's  hesitating 

air. 
Soon  the  ivories  were  spotted,  and  the  bank  was  won  by  Brown, 
Who  rolled  thirteen  points  together,  smiling   blandly,  and   sat 

down. 

Jacob  followed  with  a  single,  failing  on  a  cushion  shot. 

Billy  added  ten  to  his  string,  and  remarked  that   "  Ten  's  a  lot." 

By  a  drive  across  the  table  Jacob  got  the  balls  in  place; 

Up  and  down  the  lines  he  drove  them,  leading  them  a  merry  race. 

Swiftly  clicked  the  balls  together,  and  the  buttons  on  Jake's  string 
Flocked  together  like  to  blackbirds  that  have  tired  upon  the  wing 
And  have  settled  down  to  rest  awhile  upon  the  slender  wire 
That  girdles  the  wide  world  around  and  writes  down  thoughts  in 


ire. 


146 


"  Rank    Outsiders^ 


Soon  the  marker  called  "  One  hundred  !  "     Still  from  Schaefer's 

magic  cue 
One  by  one  the  points  kept  dropping,  as  at  twilight  drops  the  dew. 
Masses,  follows,  spreads  and  forces,  all  were  made  with  easy  grace, 
While  a  startled  look  of  wonder  chased  the  smiles  from  Billy's  face. 

Then    the  marker  called  "  One-eighty,"  then  ''  One-ninety-nine 

and  game. " 
Jacob  coolly  took  Brown's  money  —  asked  him  would  he  call  again. 
"  Who   is  that  ?  "  gasped  Brown,  in  wonder,  and  his  mustache 

upward  curled 
As  the  answer  came:   "Jake   Schaefer,   champion   player  of  the 

world." 

In  a  town  in  Indiana,  known  to  fame  as  Kokomo, 

Brown  &  Son  are  selling  hardware  in  a  little  wooden  row. 

Billy  keeps  the  books,  and  answers,  when   he's  asked  to  play  a 

game: 
"  No ;  I  once  crossed  cues  with  Schaefer,  and  I  "11  never  play  again. " 


The  N'cw  Magdalen.  147 

THE  NEW  MAGDALEN. 

The  Memphis  Appeal,  some  years  ago,  told  the  story  of  a  fallen  woman  of  that 
place,  Mollie  Cook  by  name,  who,  owning  a  gilded  palace  of  sin,  turned  it  into  a 
hospital  for  the  yellow-fever  sufferers,  and  with  her  own  hands  nursed  the  sick  and  dying 
back  to  life  again,  until  at  last,  wearied  and  exhausted  with  the  long  watching,  she, 
too,  fell  a  prey  to  the  fever.  I  am  told  that  a  marble  shaft,  the  gift  of  the  city, 
marks  her  last  resting-place  in  the  cemetery  there ;  and  it  seems  but  a  fitting  tribute 
to  one  who  gave  all  she  had  —  her  life  — to  redeem  the  errors  of  the  past. 

The  yellow  death  came  stealing  swift 

Up  from  the  river's  edo-e  — 
Up  from  the  dark,  dank  morasses. 

With  their  tangled  fringe  of  sedge; 
Up  from  the  misty  black  bayous, 

On  the  south  wind's  tainted  breath, 
Till  the  skies  grew  dark  at  Memphis 

With  shadowy  wings  of  death. 

Then  the  air  grew  dense  and  silent, 

And  the  wild  bird  ceased  its  song, 
While  strong  men  cried  out  in  anguish, 

''  How  long,  O  God!   how  long.?" 
But  the  skies  gave  back  no  answer. 

Death's  pitiless  scythe  still  swung 
As  the  reaper  gathered  his  harvest  — 

A  harvest  of  old  and  young. 

The  babe  in  its  cradle  sleeping, 

In  the  flush  of  the  mornine  lio-ht. 
A  smile  on  its  dimpled  features, 

In  a  coffin  slept  at  night; 
While  the    man  who  knelt  at  even, 

Thanking  God  for  strength  He  gave, 
Lay  down  to  sleep  at  the  dawnine 

In  the  cold  and  narrow  erave. 


148  "  Rajik  Outsiders.'' 

The  pavements  only  echoed  back 

The  wheels  of  the  passing-  hearse 
That  bore  to  the  silent  city 

The  victims  of  the  curse  — 
The  voices  of  stricken  mourners, 

Who  heard  not  the  rustling  wing, 
But  saw  on  the  sleeper's  forehead 

The  seal  of  the  Saffron  Kinor. 

Then  out  from  a  gilded  palace 

Of  sorrow  and  sin  and  shame, 
Clad  in  her  robes  of  scarlet, 

A  fallen  woman  came. 
And  songs  of  the  noisy  revel 

Gave  place  in  its  stately  hall 
To  prayers  for  the  sick  and  dying, 

And  a  wom^an's  soft  foot-fall. 

And  back  from  King  Death's  dark  portals. 

From  verge  of  an  unseen  land. 
Came  many  a  wandering  mortal. 

At  touch  of  that  woman's  hand; 
Till  the  fever,  wrathful,  sullen, 

Touched  her  with  its  tainted  breath, 
And,  asleep  in  a  snowy  garment, 

She  lay  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

O  oirl  with  the  jeweled  fino-ers  ! 

O  maid  with  the  laces  rare  ! 
Will  that  woman's  grander  action 

Count  less  than  your  studied  prayer  ? 
Have  the  angels,  looking  earthward, 

A  love  that  's  tenderer  seen 
Than  that  of  this  fallen  woman, 

The  true  new  Magdalen? 


The  Modern  Style. 


149 


THE  MODERN  STYLE. 

Do  you  remember,  Tom,  my  boy,  the  old  church  on  the  hill  ? 

I  used  to  go  there  when  a  lad,  and  I  can  see  it  still; 

With  ivy  climbino;  o.'er  the  roof  and  clustering  round  the  door. 

By  which  I  used  to  wait  for  Sue  in  happy  days  of  yore. 

Ah,  that  was  ere  my  hair  turned  gray,  in  days  of  long  ago. 

For  Susie  many  years  has  slept  beneath  the  winter's  snow. 


1 


1 


••  The  old  church  fell  to  ruins,  Tom,  beneath  the  touch  of  Tivie:'' 

The  old  church  fell  to  ruins,  Tom,  beneath  the  touch  of  Time, 
Yet  left  somewhere  within  my  heart  a  mem'ry  half  divine. 
The  preacher  of  the  olden  days  has  been  for  years  at  rest, 
And  violets  blossom  in  the  grass  that  grows  above  his  breast. 
The  old-time  choir  of  rosebud  girls  have  drifted  out  of  sight; 
The  leader  with  his  tuning-fork  has  bid  the  world  good-night. 

They  've  built  a  new  church  now  in  town  upon  a  thoroughfare 
That  isn't  like  the  old  at  all.     The  other  night,  when  there. 
I  couldn't  help  but  sit  and  think  about  the  olden  ways 
Of  worship,  when  they  feared   the  Lord  and   loved  to  sing  His 

praise. 
The  ladies  didn't  go  to  see  which  was  the  latest  style 
Of  bonnet,  and  to  gossip  of  their  neighbors  all  the  while. 


I50 


' '  Rank  Outsiders. " 


The  new  church,  Tom,  is  built  of  stone,  a  monument  to  pride, 

With  steeple  towering-  to  the  sky  and  portals  open  wide. 

The  sunbeams  wander  in   by  day  through  windows  of  stained 

glass, 
Where  shadows  turn  to  clouds  of  gold,  as  swift  they  come  and 

pass. 
It  costs  a  thousand  dollars,  Tom,  to  rent  a  pew  per  year  ! 
A  privilege  to  worship  God  is  sold  now  mighty  dear. 

The  preacher  wears  a  broadcloth  coat,  and  in  a  quiet  way 

He  talks  about  the  Lord  as  though  he  met  Him  every  day; 

He  never  mentions  hell  at  all  —  't  would  make  the  people  smile  — 

For  hell  is  something,  Tom,  that's  gone  completely  out  of  style. 

It  wouldn't  do  to  tell  a  man  who  gambles  on  the  Board 

His  business  was  not  quite  the  thing  and  might  offend  the  Lord; 

And  if  you  barred  the  grab-bag  out  and  left  it  in  the  lurch 

You  'd  cut  off  half  the  revenue  that  helped  to  build  the  church. 

The  benches  now  are  cushioned,  Tom,  so  one  can  pray  at  ease. 
For  most  of  folks  pray  better  when  it  does  not  hurt  their  knees. 
You  can't  expect  a  business  man  to  kneel  upon  hard  oak. 
And  beg  the  Lord  for  something  when  he  isn't  really  "broke." 
He  simply  makes  a  calm  request  that  God  will  see  him  through. 
And  eive  him  frosted  cake  for  one,  instead  of  bread  for  two. 

Folks  go  to  church  these  latter  days  because  it  gives  them  tone, 
Leave  their  religion  at  the  door  and  never  take  it  home, 
Save  in  rare  instances,  perhaps  —  so  rare  these  latter  days 
That  those  with  true  religion,  Tom,  hide  it  from  public  gaze: 
They  sit  in  their  arm-chairs  at  home,  and  read  God's  holy  word, 
Kneel  in  their  closets  privately  and  worship  there  the  Lord. 

The  world  grows  better  day  by  day,  I  'm  satisfied  of  that. 
It's  hard  to  be  a  Christian,  though,  and  rent  a  modern  flat. 
It 's  hard  to  have  to  go  to  church  and  iw-ear  a  tattered  coat. 
To  hire  a  pew,  way  in  the  rear,  and  never  hear  a  note 


SaJidys  Nugget,  151 

Of  that  sweet  singer  who  is  paid  a   gold-piece  for  each  song  — 
To  worship  God  by  proxy  when  you  really  think  it 's  wrong. 


SANDY'S  NUGGET. 

(California,  1S52.) 

Now,  jest  wait  for  awhile, 

Jim;  step  up  here  an'  smile: 
I  'm  the  happiest  man  in  the  mountains  to-day, 

An'  I  says  it 's  my  treat. 

Will  ye  have  straight  or  sweet  ? 
Aye,  that 's  right.     Take  yer  bitters  the  regular  way 

For  them  toddies  an'  such 

To  my  taste  aren't  much. 
Why,  it 's  sp'ilin'  good  liquor  to  mix  'em  that  way. 

Well,  here  's  to  you,  old  pard; 

IMay  you  hold  a  trump  card 
In  the  great  game  of  life,  I  'm  a-wishing  to-day. 

Have  I  struck  it  ?   I  guess 

That  I  have,  old  boy.     Yes, 
And  far  richer  than  ever  'twas  struck  here  afore; 

It 's  the  first  that 's  been  found 

In  these  mines.      Weighs  twelve  pound. 
Oh!  Where  is  it?   Up-stairs  over  Mattingly's  store. 

Is  it  pure  ?      Yes,  and  sweet 

As  that  rose  at  your  feet, 
For  how  could  it  get  soiled  on  its  journey  to  earth. 

When  the  angels  looked  out, 

Keeping  guard  on  the  route, 
Till  it  came  to  our  cabin  with  sunshine  and  mirth  ? 


152  ''Rank  07iisiders." 

As  to  value,  it 's  hard 

To  assess  it  yet,  pard, 
For  it  ain't  been  assayed  'cept  by  me  an'  my  wife; 

But  this  'ere  camp  don't  hold 

Enouorh  silver  or  orold 
For  to  buy  it.      On  that  you  can  wager  your  life. 

Pretty  steep,  did  you  say  } 

I  don't  think  so,  but  —  eh  ? 
Now,  who  said  it  was  metal  ?      I  didn't  —  not  I; 

It 's  a  baby,  with  eyes 

Just  as  blue  as  the  skies, 
An'  a  look  like  its  mother's,  so  modest  an'  shy, 

What  !     A  gal  ?     Yes,  you  bet, 

She  '11  be  somethin'  to  pet 
For  the  boys  when  she  gets  so  she  's  runnin'  around. 

Fill  your  glass  up  again; 

I  'm  the  first  to  begin 
On  a  family  — an'  here  's  to  the  nugget  I  've  found. 

II. 
Now,  the  news  of  Sandy's  fortune  was  soon  spreadaboutthe  camp. 
And  the  boys,  they  talked  it  over  that  same  night  at  Haley's  store, 
And  they  called  it   "  Sandy's  Nugget,"  and  thought  him  a  lucky 
scamp. 
While  they  hoped  he  'd  be  the  father  of  a  half-a-dozen  more. 

Then  old  Jim  he  said  he  reckoned,  as  it  was  the  first  to  come, 
That  it  ought  to  have  a  send-off,  and  to  this  the  boys  agreed; 

So  they  called  a  sort  of  meeting  for  to  see  what  should  be  done. 
To  get  up  a  celebration  such  as  never  yet  was  seedo 

Of  the  diff 'rent  things  suggested  thar  I  haven't  time  to  speak, 
Until  Jim  proposed  together  they  should  call  upon  the  kid 

In  their  "  Sunday-go-to-meetings,"  as  the  wise  men  went  to  seek 
Once  the  Christ-child  in  the  Bible,  and  should  do  as  those  had  did. 


Me  and  Jim.  153 

When  they  entered  Sandy's  cabin,  Night  had  just  let  fall  her  bars, 
And  the  rough  men  kissed  the  baby,  and  beside  it  on  the  bed 

Each  one  laid  a  bag  of  gold  dust,  while  the  mother's  eyes,  like  stars, 
Grew  so  misty  with  the  rain-drops  that  she  turned  away  her 
head. 

Old  Jim  came  last,  and,  bending  down,  he  kissed  the  baby  girl, 
And  beside  her  placed  a  package  that  was  larger  than  the  rest, 

As  he  said,  "Thar,  Sandy's  Nugget,  ye  shall  be  the  miners'  pearl, 
An'  I  '11  give  ye  most  o'  any,  fer  I  loved  yer  mother  best." 

'T  was  full  twenty  thousand  dollars  that  the  miners  left  that  night, 

And  't  was  all  for  Sandy's  Nugget,  as  the  boys  had  named  the 

child. 

"  Fer,"  said  Jim,  "  we  '11  make  her  future,  if  we  can,  look  gay  an' 

bright. " 

And  the  richest  girl  at  Haley's  Bar  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 


ME  AND  JIM. 

We  were  both  brought  up  in  a  country  town, 

Was  me  an'  Jim, 
An'  the  hull  world  somehow  seemed  ter  frown 

On  me  an'  him. 
At  school  we  never  was  given  a  chance 
To  I'arn  that  Africa  wasn't  in  France. 
Patches  we  wore  on  the  seats  o'  our  pants, 

Did  me  an'  Jim. 

But  we  grew  up  hearty,  an'  hale,  an'  strong, 

Did  me  an'  Jim; 
We  knowed  ev'ry  note  in  a  thrush's  song. 

Did  me  an'  him; 


154 


"  Rank  OtUsidcrs." 

An'  we  knowed  whar  the  bluebirds  built  their  nests 
When  the  spring-  tripped  over  the  mountains'  crests. 
Why  the  robins  all  wore  their  scarlet  vests, 
Did  me  an'  Jim. 

Then  we  fell  in  love,  jest  as  most  folks  do. 

Did  me  an'  Jim; 
We  was  arter  the  same  gal,  though,  we  two, 

That  's  me  an'  him. 
An'  she  treated  us  jest  alike,  did  she. 
When  at  quiltin'-party  or  huskin'-bee. 
We  was  even  up  in  the  race,  you  see, 

Was  me  an'  Jim. 

I  popped  at  last,  an'  she  answered  me  "No." 

Jim  followed  suit, 
But  she  wouldn't  have  him,  an'  told  him  so. 

Forbidden  fruit 
We  called  her  then,  an'  I  'm  rather  afraid 
That  we  cussed  a  little;   an'  then  we  prayed 
That  she  'd  live  an'  she  'd  die  a  plain  old  maid,, 

Did  me  an'  Jim. 

Then  the  war  broke  out,  and  Company  B 

Caught  me  an'  Jim. 
We  both  on  us  fit  fer  the  Union  —  see? — 

Did  me  an'  him; 
An'  we  heerd  the  screechin'  o'  shot  an'  shell, 
The  snarlin'  o'  drums,  an'  the  rebel  yell; 
An'  follered  the  flag  through  the  battles'  hell. 

Did  me  an'  Jim. 

'Twas  the  day  that  we  fit  at  Seven  Oaks, 

Death  came  to  Jim, 
An'  excuse  me,  please,  but  I  sorter  chokes 

Talkin'  o'  him. 


"  And  we  kno7Vtd  7C'/iar  the  bhtehii  ds  hiiilt  (Ju ii  utsts 
When  the  spring  tripped  over  the  7}ioitntanis'  cnsts." 


Me  and  Jim. 

Fer  his  rugged  brown  hand  I  held  in  mine 
Till  his  soul  passed  out  through  the  picket  line, 
Whar  an  anofel  waited  the  countersiorn 
To  git  from  Jim. 

Then  I  fit  along  till  the  war  was  done. 

Without  poor  Jim; 
Was  given  a  sword  instead  of  a  gun, 

An'  thought  o'  him. 
An'  I  wore  an  eagle,  when  mustered  out, 
On  my  shoulder-straps,  an'  I  faced  about 
Fer  the  startin'-p'int  o'  my  hull  life's  route, — 

But  not  wi'  Jim. 

I  was  quite  a  man  in  that  country  place 

I  'd  left  wi'  Jim. 
She  gave  me  a  smile  with  a  blushin'  face, 

An'  asked  'bout  him. 
So  I  told  her  how,  as  she  sat  'longside, 
Like  a  soldier  brave  he  had  fought  an'  died, 
An'  then  —  well,  I  kissed  her  because  she  cried- 

Kissed  her  fer  Jim. 

Then  I  married  her  one  bright  day  in  June, — 

Fer  me  an'  Jim. 
Oft  under  the  light  o'  the  stars  an'  moon 

We  talked  o'  him. 
An'  arter  awhile,  when  a  baby  came  — 
A  boy — an'  we  looked  for  a  proper  name, 
His  memory  comin'  up  fresh  agin, 

We  called  him  Jim. 


^57 


158  ''Rank  Outsiders^ 

HER  EVENING  PRAYER. 

When  the  day  burns  out  in  crimson 

All  along  the  western  sky; 
When  Night's  picket-line  of  shadows 

Draw  with  stealthy  footsteps  nigh, 
Steals  there  softly  to  my  chamber 

Little  lass  with  eyes  of  blue, 
And  a  sweet  voice  softly  whispers, 

"  Can't  I  say  my  prayers  to  you  ?  " 

Then  she  straightway  kneels  before  me, 

Clasps  her  dainty  hands  in  prayer, 
While  the  firelight's  crimson  glory 

Turns  to  burnished  gold  her  hair. 
"  Kiss  me  first,"  she  softly  whispers, 

''  Den  I  '11  say  dem  awful  dood." 
And  two  roguish  eyes  peer  at  me 

From  beneath  her  tangled  hood. 

Tenderly  I  bend  to  kiss  her, 

Press  my  lips  on  eyes  and  hair. 
"  Now,"  she  says,   "  Papa,  I  'm  yeddy, 

You  must  listen  to  my  prayer." 
From  a  heart  that  knows  no  malice, 

Upward  float  the  simple  words. 
To  the  dear  Christ-child  who  watches 

O'er  His  children  and  the  birds. 

Listen  to  her  childish  whisper  — 

"Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild." 
Soft  and  low  the  sweet  petition  — 

"Look  upon  a  little  child." 
Sinks  her  voice  into  a  murmur  — 

"  Pity  my  simplicity." 
Angels  scarce  can  hear  the  prayerful 

"  Suffer  me  to  come  to  Thee." 


My  Father  s  Mill.  \  5  9 

"'  Oh,  fain  would  I  be  brought  to  Thee, 

Dracious  Lord;  forbid  it  not." 
Falls  the  golden  head  still  lower 

Of  my  sleepy  little  tot. 
Eye-lids  now  are  growing  heavy. 

"In  the  kingdom  of  Thy  drace," — 
Hear,  O  Christ,  the  faintly  whispered 

"  Div  a  little  child  a  place." 

"Amen"  follows,  uttered  quickly, 

As  she  starts  up  wide-awake. 
Wraps  her  snowy  robes  about  her. 

Gives  her  saucy  head  a  shake. 
"  Didn't  say  dem  all,"  she  whispers, 

"Taus  my  eyes  tept  shuttin'  tight. 
Played  too  hard;  besides,  I  'm  finkin 

Maybe  Dod  is  tired  to-night." 


MY  FATHER'S  MILL. 

Ah,  how  well  I  remember  the  old  brown  mill 

That  never  was  quiet  the  whole  day  long, 
For  the  noisy  hopper  would  never  keep  still, 

And  the  wheels  forever  were  hummine  a  sono- 
As  they  answered  the  poor  man's  whispered  prayer 

That  he  breathed  each  night  by  his  lowly  bed. 
While  the  dust  hung  thick  in  the  troubled  air  — 

"  We  are  grinding  for  God  thy  daily  bread." 

Oh,  the  old  mill's  loft  was  a  haunted  place, 

And  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  rough  board  floor, 

While  over  the  rafters  the  rats  would  race 
As  I  laid  my  hand  on  its  shrunken  door, 


i6o  ^'  Rank  OiUsidcrs'' 

Hurrying,  scurrying-,  scampering  by  — 
Then  peering  out  from  their  holes  at  me, 

With  a  friendly  nod  and  a  laughing  eye 

That  said,   "  We  are  stealing  the  corn,  you  see." 

But  the  miller,  who  stood  with  his  dusty  coat. 

Whistling  low,  in  the  old  mill-door, 
And  setting  the  ghost  of  a  song  afloat 

On  the  air,  has  crossed  to  the  other  shore, 
Carrying  with  him  the  dreams  he  dreamed 

As  the  yellow  meal,  like  a  cloud,  unrolled 
From  the  wooden  spout  in  the  wall,  and  streamed 

To  the  floor  beneath  in  a  shower  of  gold. 

Now  a  stranger  stands  in  the  miller's  place. 

With  a  coat  as  white  as  the  one  he  wore, 
And  two  black  eyes,  from  a  round,  red  face, 

Peer  out  at  me  from  the  open  door; 
And  I  hear  the  hum  of  the  whirling  wheels. 

That  turn  the  stones  with  a  giant's  power, 
And  I  see  the  dust  as  it  noiseless  steals 

Through  the  old  brown  mill,  like  the  ghost  of  flour. 

Ah  me !  how  the  years  have  marched  along, 

Since  I  tied  the  bags  in  that  dingy  place, 
Where  the  wheels  kept  time  to  the  miller's  song 

And  the  buckets  laughed  in  their  upward  race. 
But  still  I  hear  in  my  dreams,  to-day. 

The  sound  of  the  hopper,  never  still; 
And  I  fancy  I  see  the  rats  at  play 

In  the  haunted  loft  of  my  father's  mill. 


The  Old- Fashioned  Way. 


i6i 


The  girls  snuggled  m, 
with  the  bovs  at  their 
side." 


THE   OLD-FASHIONED  WAY. 

Oh,  g-ive  me  a  ride  in  the  old-fashioned  sleigh 

With  the  old-fashioned  girls  that  I  knew  in  my  youth, 

Whose  hearts  were  as  light  as  the  snow  of  to-day 

And  whose  eyes  held  a  promise  of  sunshine  and  truth. 

And  eive  me  the  horses  we  bred  on  the  farm, 

With  their  steady,  slow  ways  as  they  traveled  the  road, 

And  give  me  the  laughter  and  cries  of  alarm 

That  came  from  the  girls  in  the  overturned  load. 

'T  was  a  plain  wagon-box  that  was  half  filled  with  straw. 
That  the  girls  snuggled  in,  with  the  boys  at  their  side, 

And  the  buffalo  robes,  by  an  unwritten  law. 

Were  compelled  to  conceal  what  they  sheltered  with  pride. 

Then  a  sly  kiss  was  stolen  sometimes  for  a  lark, 

When  the  shadows  lay  heavy  and  thick  on  the  way. 

'T  was  the  driver's  whip  only  that  cracked  in  the  dark," 
We  explained,  and  the  lassies  ne'er  gave  it  away. 

Oh,  the  buffalo  robes  were  ne'er  heavy  enough, 

And  the  lassies,  God  bless  'em,  they  had  to  keep  warm; 

So  waists  were  encircled  with  warm  woolen  stuff 
That  hid  in  its  linings  a  masculine  arm. 


1 62  ''Rank  Outsiders^ 

Then  just  before  dawn,  at  the  night's  darkest  time, 
When  the  lassies  were  left  at  the  low  cottage  gate, 

Came  the  whispered  good-night  from  lips  redder  than  wine, 
And  a  kiss  that  was  granted  because  it  was  late. 


THE  SENTINEL'S  STORY. 

We  were  standing  on  picket,  he  and  I, 
Out  under  the  stars  of  a  midnight  sky. 
In  the  Wilderness,  where  the  night  bird's  song 
Gives  back  an  echo  the  whole  night  long; 
Where  the  silver  stars,  as  they  come  and  pass, 
Leave  their  stars  of  dew  on  the  tangled  grass; 
Where  the  rivers  sing  in  the  darkest  hours 
Their  sweetest  songs  to  the  listening  flowers. 

He  'd  a  slender  form  and  a  girlish  face, 

That  I  thought  in  the  army  out  of  place; 

Though  he  smiled  when  I  told  him  so  one  day  — 

Aye,  smiled  and  blushed  in  a  girlish  way 

That  minded  me  of  a  face  I  knew, 

In  a  Northern  village  'neath  the  blue. 

When  the  army  marched  by  the  meadow  bars 

She  'd  kissed  me,  watched  by  the  laughing  stars. 

Right  before  us  the  river  silent  ran. 

We  two  had  been  placed  there  to  guard  the  ford,- 
A  dangerous  place, —  and  we'd  jump  and  start 

Each  time  that  a  leaf  by  the  wind  was  stirred. 
Behind  us  the  army  lay  encamped; 

Their  camp-fires  burned  into  the  night 
Like  bonfires  built  upon  the  hills, 
And  set  by  demon  hands  alight. 


The  Scntincr s  Sto?y. 

Somehow,  whenever  I  looked  his  way, 
I  seemed  to  see  her  face  again, 

Kind  o'  hazy-Hke,  as  you  've  seen  a  star 
A-peepin'  out  through  a  misty  rain; 


1 6  J. 


''  T  was  just  in  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, — 
We  \i  stopped  for  a  chat  at  the  end  of  our  beat." 


And  once,  I  beUeve,  as  I  thought  of  her, 
I  thought  aloud,  and  I  called  him  Bess, 

When  he  started  quick,  and  smiling  said, 

"  You  dream  of  some  one  at  home,  I  guess." 


164  ''Rank  Outsiders ^ 

'T  was  just  in  the  flush  of  the  morning-  Hght  — 

We  'd  stopped  for  a  chat  at  the  end  of  our  beat 
When  a  rifle  flashed  at  the  river's  bank, 

And,  bathed  in  blood,  he  sank  at  my  feet. 
All  of  a  sudden  I  knew  her  then. 

And  kneeling  I  kissed  the  girlish  face. 
And  raised  her  head  from  the  tangled  grass 

To  find  on  my  breast  a  resting-place. 

When  the  corporal  came  to  change  the  guard 

At  six  in  the  morning,  he  found  me  there, 
With  Bessie's  dead  form  clasped  in  my  arms. 

And  hid  in  my  heart  her  dying  prayer. 
We  buried  her  under  the  moaning  pines, 

And  never  a  man  in  the  army  knew 
That  dead  Will  Searles  and  my  girl  were  one. 

You  're  the  first  I  've  told  —  the  story  is  true. 


MERCY  MAY. 

We  were  lovers,  Mercy  May  and  I, 

In  the  summers  long  ago, 
When  life  was  bright  with  love's  young  dream 
And  lily  bells  beside  the  stream 

Swung  softly  to  and  fro; 
Ere  came  November's  chilling  winds. 

And  fell  the  winter's  snow\ 

She  was  all  the  world  to  me,  and  I 

Dream  of  her  still  to-day, 
As  of  a  sunbeam,  warm  and  bright, 
That  lightened  up  life's  stormy  night, 

A  rainbow  in  the  spray; 
Or  as  a  vision  vanishing 

Thro'  heaven's  gates  away. 


Mercy   May. 


165 


She  sang.     The  meadow-lark  that  sprang 

From  out  the  grass  was  still. 
Clear  as  a  flute  that  sweet  voice  rang 

O'er  valley,  wood  and  hill. 
And  where  she  walked  the  violets  grew 
And  opened  wide  their  eyes  of  blue, 
Tear-dimmed,  and  misty  with  the  dew 

That  stars  at  even  spill. 

'T  was  in  the  golden  days  of  June 

I  said  to  Mercy  May, 
The  while  we  stood  beside  the  sea: 
"  I  love  you;  come  and  walk  with  me 

To  lighten  life's  dark  way." 
She  bent  her  golden  head  and  blushed, 

But  did  not  answer  nay. 

The  summer  sunbeams  came  and  went; 

The  wheat-fields  turned  to  gold; 
The  nights  grew  longer,  one  by  one. 
And  shadows  lengthened  in  the  sun 

As  summer's  days  grew  old; 
The  roses,  blushing,  bloomed  and  died  — 

Were  earth  in  earthy  mold. 


1 66  Tales  of  the  Turf. 

As  die  the  roses,  so  she  died 

One  golden  autumn  day. 
The  angel  with  the  rustling  wings, 
Before  whose  touch  earth's  proudest  kings 

Become  as  common  clay, 
Touched  her  with  fingers  icy  cold. 

And  beckoned  her  away. 

Now  I  alone  am  left  to  weep, 

To  listen  and  to  wait 
The  coming  of  the  boatman  pale 
To  row  me  through  the  misty  veil, 

And  open  wide  the  gate 
Where  Mercy  May  will  welcome  me.— 

She  promised  she  would  wait. 


V; 


Turned  Gut. 


^i;i]iMtiiHife(m  ■ 


